


Grievance

by PeaceHeather



Series: Odin's Son, Tyr's Son [1]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Adoption, Aftermath of Violence, Basically Tyr has no patience for your bullshit, Community: norsekink, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Graphic Violence in Chapter 16 ONLY, Hurt/Comfort, Hypocrisy is not tolerated, Loki Gets a Hug, Loki Needs a Hug, Loki's Lips Sewn Shut, Mouth Sewn Shut, Odin's A+ Parenting, Prompt Fill, Stupidity is called out, The thing with the hair, but not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-04-04 17:27:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 92,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4146378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeaceHeather/pseuds/PeaceHeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a fill in Round 17 of Norsekink:<br/>"Someone starts to notice that Odin treats Loki in ways that are neglectfull and borderline abusive and starts to feel very uncomfortable about it.</p><p>It becomes worse when people at court start to take after Odin's treatment of Loki. But they still don't feel comfortable voicing they're doubts out loud.</p><p>And then the lip-sewing incident happens and they can no longer sit idly by while this happens. So this person just stand up and calls the rest of Asgard out on this bulshit, seriously the boy just cut of some hair, it's not like it wont ever grow back on it's own again.</p><p>Bonuses:<br/>10+ The person is higly respected and influential in Asgard.<br/>100+ The person is Tyr.<br/>1000+ Whoever it is, is not part of the royal family."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morning Court

"If there are any who have further business before this court, let them come forward."

Ceremonial words, seldom answered. They were spoken over the sounds of muffled whimpering, the second prince still kneeling on the floor, still held in place by his brother while smug-looking dwarfs stood over them both. Tyr was close enough to hear the sounds of the blood spattering on the stone, close enough to hear Thor whispering frantically into Loki's ear while Loki struggled to shake him off. Tyr was not far enough away to miss the sound of the first quiet, gleeful whispers of the courtiers behind him.

He clenched his fists and stepped forward. "I have further business before this court, All-Father."

The reaction rippled through the court, as Tyr had known it would. The king always conducted his business, asked if anyone else had anything that needed to be dealt with, then when no one answered, he concluded his court and descended from Hlidskjalf in ponderous dignity. No one ever answered, but the law required that the king ask his subjects before closing the day's session. So the court murmured, and Thor jerked his head around to see, and the queen stilled, her face pale. Tyr heard Loki's breath catch, no doubt in horror that he could not make a quicker escape from this little island of hell.

"General Tyr," said Odin. He covered his surprise well, Tyr thought, but then Odin always covered everything well. Including whatever love he might feel for the younger of his sons. "We will hear you."

The queen pressed her lips together; Tyr knew the lady well enough to guess that she was appalled Odin would simply allow her son to suffer, there on the floor in front of everyone, ignored by Odin but the focus of everyone else's silent mockery.  For the boy's sake, Tyr wished there was a way to do this differently, but the theatrics would pay off in a moment. Loki might even appreciate them later.

"All-Father," said Tyr, "I have two articles I must bring to your attention; the first pertains to my duties as your weaponsmaster, and the second as general of your forces and defender of this our fair realm."

"Speak, then," said Odin, the picture of royal calm and dignity. Now Thor looked hurt, likely over the thought that anyone would dare to bring up such trivial matters while his brother bled onto the floor like a slaughtered goat. Well, he always had been a bit oblivious.

"It has come to my attention that there is a student in my charge who is being mistreated by his family," said Tyr. Odin's eye narrowed. "The boy is high-spirited, as all boys of his age are wont to be, yet his father attempts to crush his spirit and his mother does nothing to stop it." Tyr was not as polished a courtier as some, and could not help it when his eyes flicked over to catch the queen's for the barest instant. Naturally, Odin saw; behind his beard, he pressed his lips together in annoyance, while the queen's eyes widened in realization. "As is my right as weaponsmaster, I wish to remove the boy from the grasp of those who abuse him, and place him directly under my care and supervision until he comes of age."

Loki had stilled, and Tyr could hear him struggling to control his breathing. _Hang on just a little longer,_ thought Tyr.

It was the queen who spoke next. Tyr wasn't sure what game she might be playing, but as All-Mother, family matters did fall under her rightful jurisdiction. "These are serious allegations, General Tyr. I recognize that you have ever been a loyal servant to the throne, and you have a reputation of being sober of character and not prone to rash judgments." Behind him, Tyr could hear murmurs of agreement; that would be gratifying if the murmurs did not come from the same people who were snickering at their injured prince only a moment ago. "All here know that you would not move to exercise your rights over the boy unless it were truly necessary. Nevertheless, I must ask: if it is the father who has mistreated your student, why do you also include the mother in your statement?"

Tyr shrugged. "It is as I have already said, All-Mother; while the father may have been the one to harm the boy directly, the mother still stood aside and did nothing to stop the abuse. In fact I have known her to merely stand and watch while it occurred, and to offer platitudes to her son afterward in what was probably meant to be reassurance that he was still cared for, despite his treatment."

The queen's breath caught, and she blinked rapidly for a moment before schooling her expression. "A wife's duty is to her husband," she said.

"And a mother's duty is to her children," returned Tyr. "It cannot be an easy thing for a woman's heart to endure, to be forced to choose between one and the other; yet if it truly comes down to it, such a choice is ultimately very simple. A woman's husband, after all, is a man grown, and able to defend himself, while her children are defenseless and depend upon others to protect them. If a man is so dishonorable as to deliberately harm his own children, then the woman who is caught between them has no other recourse but to stand against him and side with her children for their own protection. Any man of Asgard who would attack a defenseless foe, much less attack those who are defenseless and innocent and not foes at all, has proven himself unworthy of her and of Asgard, and she should not be held to her oaths to uphold her duties to him as a wife."

The queen was blinking rapidly again, but Tyr saw her nod once, decisively, and even stand a little taller at his response. So. She must understand what he aimed to do here, and knew that it would cause her pain, yet she also knew that it was the right thing to do.

Tyr only wished he had stood up for the boy sooner. Done more. Perhaps Frigga wished that as well.

"As my queen has said, these are serious allegations, General Tyr. Have you evidence of this abuse?" asked the king, and Tyr fought back a sneer. Odin forgot sometimes that he wasn't the only one capable of strategic maneuvering. The man might think he could make Tyr back down to save face, but Tyr's pride was not so fragile a thing, nor his position so unstable. Odin ought to know better, after the speech Tyr had just given, but he would no doubt decide that he was _offended,_ once he learned he was wrong.

"I have," said Tyr, "but I would prefer to rescue my student now and discuss the crime afterward. If it is proven later that my claim is somehow in error, no harm will have been done to the boy by removing him mistakenly from his home. However, I am confident of my claim and would rather not leave the boy to suffer while tired elders discuss his case."

Loki, bless him, was listening intently. Tyr heard his breath catch at the veiled insult. Good. Loki might not yet dare hope that Tyr was talking about him, but he knew that Tyr wasn't standing here, prolonging court proceedings, simply to further his humiliation. Always thinking, that one. At worst, he might suspect that Tyr was using Loki's treatment as an example to aid another boy's cause. He would probably not object to that.

"And what is this boy's name?" asked Odin.

 _Oh, no you don't,_ thought Tyr. He folded his arms, and saw the exact moment when Odin began to realize his error. "The boy is one of my students and not yet fully of age, therefore it is improper to introduce his name into the rolls of the court."

Odin tried again. "And what sort of testimony has the boy brought you, of his supposed mistreatment?"

Tyr narrowed his eyes, where only the king and his family could see. "I will remind the court that it is not the boy who would be on trial, should the All-Father choose to pursue an investigation into his case. The issue here is not his honesty or lack thereof, but the malicious behavior on the part of his father. As to that, All-Father, my student has not needed to present me with any testimony, for, as I already said, I have gathered evidence on my own of the abuse he has suffered. Namely, I have witnessed the mistreatment myself, several times now." Tyr's voice dropped into a flat register that even after all these centuries could still scare the piss out of every last one of the soldiers he'd trained. "I trust my testimony will be sufficient."

"It will," said Odin. Tyr could hear both the threat and the warning in his voice, but he refused to be cowed by this man's temper or his title any longer.

"Good," he said. "I would also remind the court that whether you choose to investigate my student's case or not, as weaponsmaster it is my right to assume custody of any of my students, at any time, without such investigation, should I deem it necessary. An investigation is only required if the student's father disputes my claim." There. He'd done what he could to protect the boy and, though he did not deserve it, to protect the father as well. The whispers of the court nobles had finally ceased, upon hearing the tone of Tyr's voice, and now the hall was as silent as a tomb, as everyone waited to see what would happen next. The only question left was whether Odin would try one last time to back Tyr into a corner and dare him to say words that could not be unsaid.

"You will not divulge the name of your student, General Tyr, but the law demands that you reveal the name of the father." Well, then. Apparently, Odin would. "Who is this man whom you claim to be so completely without honor?"

Tyr swallowed a derisive laugh. "The father's name is Odin Borsson," he replied calmly, and the court erupted into shock and outrage. Tyr merely held Odin's gaze, arms still crossed. The old man should have learned by now that Tyr did not bluff.

Movement at the base of the dais caught his attention, and Tyr looked down to see Thor standing with a look of anger on his face. Meanwhile Loki, still on his knees, was wiping the back of his hand across his dripping chin, smearing blood against the pale skin. He too looked up at Tyr, warily, and Tyr refused to let himself react to the grisly sight of the boy's mouth, sealed shut with gleaming golden wire. Instead, he nodded solemnly, and hoped Loki could read the promise in his eyes.

"How dare you claim my father is a man without honor!" demanded Thor, and Tyr frowned at him the way he did in the arena, when the boy was being especially dense.

"Take another look at your brother, and ask me that again."

"Loki brought—"

" _Loki_ is not fully of age," said Tyr. "He is only barely old enough to legally enter into binding contracts, or place significant wagers. He is not, however, the head of his own household yet, and until he is, any risk to his life or limb outside the battlefield is meant to be taken up by the elders of his family on his behalf—either his father, or you, Thor, once you come of age yourself. Yet I notice neither of you even dreamed of doing so, and you, Thor, even held him still so that those filthy dwarfs could torment him." Brokkr and Eitri, still standing there, no longer looked so smug, but Tyr ignored their shouts of protest. "Meanwhile Odin allowed his own son to be humiliated publicly, _mutilated_ , for a bit of _sport."_

"My father commanded—"

"I know what he commanded, boy, I was standing right here with all the rest of you." Tyr looked him up and down in disgust. "I suppose you thought that pinning his arms back and holding him steady was somehow _better_ than taking up the awl and punching holes in his mouth with your own hands." Loki flinched, and Tyr regretted making his words so harsh. "What I said to the queen applies to you as well, prince." Tyr turned and pitched his voice to include the entire hall. "It includes all of you: if you have to choose between protecting a powerful man and protecting a defenseless child, even if they are both your family, the _only_ honorable thing to do is protect the one who cannot protect himself. Loki is yet a boy; not for much longer, perhaps, and trained as a warrior, yes, but still a boy." He swept his gaze across the entire court before turning back to look Odin square in the eye. "And even if he were a man, I fail to see how this _barbaric torture_ is meant to serve as any kind of justice."

Thor fell silent, scowling.

"He deserved it, for his lies," asserted one of the dwarfs in his gravelly voice. Tyr didn't care to see which of them it was.

"I'll deal with the two of you in a moment," Tyr promised, and watched with satisfaction as they drew closer to each other nervously. "In any case, Thor, I do not stand before this court to claim your father is completely without honor. I have no desire to unseat the All-Father from his golden throne." Much though he might deserve it. "I only declare that he has behaved in a way which endangers one of my students, and I therefore claim my right to remove that student from his keeping."

"Oh, nothing more than that?" Odin, naturally, couldn’t let the slight to his pride pass. "And I suppose you have a better way of curbing his lying tongue!"

Loki only barely managed to cover up a voiceless sob of breath, and in turn, Tyr only barely managed to bit back the surge of anger on his behalf. "We'll have to see, won't we?" he shrugged calmly, which only seemed to irritate Odin further.

"Very well, General. If you wish to take him, then take him and have done with it!"

For a man with such a reputation for wisdom, he did seem especially easy to manipulate today. "Hoenir," Tyr called.

Tyr's valet, a man older than Odin himself, stepped forward, then at Tyr's nod, moved to see to the boy. "Do you think you can stand, my prince?" he asked, quietly enough that only Tyr and the royal family could hear it. Well, and the dwarfs, too, given the way they began to smirk again.

Loki staggered to his feet, leaning heavily on Hoenir's arm. Thor looked stricken and made to take Loki's other arm, but the younger prince shook off the elder with a glare that mostly covered up his flinch. Tyr would be sure to take some time to explain Thor's stupidity to him in the ring tomorrow; for now, though, he stepped forward, drawing a dagger and making a shallow slice across the back of his own hand. "Loki," he said, sheathing his dagger, "it is my wish to offer you sanctuary and protection, from this day forward, to have you as my foster son until such time as you come of age or we mutually dissolve the compact between us. Will you consent to have me as your foster father, to shelter you and provide for you in all things, through peace and adversity, from this day forward?"

Loki glanced back and forth between Tyr's face and the cut on his hand, eyes wide. His breath was shaky and there were tears in his eyes, but he nodded for all to see.

Frigga closed her eyes for a second, but she still stood tall and proud before all the court.

"And will you also consent to be my foster son, losing neither title nor rank, yet choosing to dwell under my roof, to share my bounty and to accept my guidance, through peace and adversity from this day forward, until you come of age or until we mutually dissolve the compact between us?"

The tears dripped down Loki's cheeks and caught in the stitching at the corner of his mouth, before washing a track through the blood on his chin. He nodded again.

Tyr dipped his thumb into the cut on his hand, then smeared his blood across Loki's forehead. "Though we share no blood within our veins," he intoned, "let my blood upon your brow be a mark of the covenant between us."

The fostering ceremony was a simple one, and that was supposed to be the end of it, but Loki lifted a shaking hand and dragged a thumb through the gore on his face, and Tyr felt a rush of fierce, hot pride strike him. He lowered his head, just far enough for Loki to leave his own mark between Tyr's eyebrows… and damned if Tyr didn't feel the tingle of seidr, and catch a flash of light on Loki's forehead, as the compact sealed itself between them. From the ripple of gasps behind him, Tyr reckoned the rest of the court had seen it, too.

Well, well, well.

Tyr caught the boy's eye and glanced down at his own hands, flashing him one of the hand signals that he taught to all his hunters and scouts: _Ready message_ , this one meant. Turning his back to the crowd, he said smoothly, "Thank you, All-Father; now, you might recall I had wished to bring two articles before the court today. The second pertains to the defense of this realm, but it concerns my foster son as well. You see, All-Father, a foreign envoy has seen fit to lay violent hands upon a prince of this realm. As you can see, my foster son is in need of immediate care…" He made three more signals in quick succession: _Stay. Go. Response?_

 _Stay_ , Loki signed back.

"…but I think it would be best if we dealt with this matter now, rather than disrupting this evening's feast with a hastily-convened Thing."

"I disagree," said Odin. Of course he did.

Tyr raised his eyebrows, but lowered his voice. "Interesting precedent you'll be setting, if you let this go," he muttered, and watched with satisfaction as Odin and the dwarves all glowered. Louder, he said, "You are wise, All-Father, and your decision suits me well; let us convene during the feast, then, and I shall use the time in between then and now to heal my foster son, and help him to gather his belongings for the relocation to my house."

Odin's nostrils flared, but he was outmaneuvered and he knew it. Should have thought about that before he tried to thwart a professional tactician.

Thor's eyes nearly popped out of his head; apparently it hadn't occurred to him that Loki wouldn't still be living in the palace after this. As if Tyr would permit the boy to stay here, trapped in a place where he'd only end up looking over his shoulder constantly in fear of Odin's wrath. No, Tyr had stood aside long enough while Odin tried to force his younger son to reshape himself to match the elder.

"I have only one final question before this court, All-Father, and then I shall trouble you no more until the Thing this evening. Hoenir?"

His valet anticipated his question, as always. "The thread is enchanted, my lord. No surprise, considering the source."

Tyr nodded, then turned toward the two dwarfs and narrowed his eyes. "So, my question: Which one of you will I get to slaughter like a squealing pig in order to break this enchantment, and which one will I allow to live?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General Tyr is Not Having Any of your bullshit, Odin.
> 
> I know, I know, I'm supposed to be working on Fate's Guardian. I should know better than to get curious and check out Norsekink for the VERY FIRST TIME right when I'm supposed to be working on another fic. But. This was just too neat an idea to pass up. I'll try to keep it short, I promise.


	2. Chamber

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys. YOU GUYS. I am blown away by the response this story has gotten. I can truly say that in all my years as a fanfic author, NOTHING I have written has ever EVER gotten this many reviews or this massive (MASSIVE) outpouring of encouragement. My mind is blown. My gob is smacked. My GAST is well and truly FLABBERED. Credit has to go to whoever posted the original prompt over on Norsekink, because they must have tapped into some kind of community consciousness that you all NEEDED to see written. Holy smokes.
> 
> I have no ability to write a short story. I try. I fail. Chapter 2 here was supposed to be an important conversation between Loki and Tyr, and instead all this stuff happened first. It doesn't help that I wasn't actually finished with the court scene the way I thought I was. Oh well, I'm just happy I managed to streamline it somewhat and trim a whole bunch of useless minutiae (no one CARES about the full conversation with the blink-and-you-miss-him servant boy). I can only hope that this second chapter lives up to the promise of the first one, which you all liked so much.
> 
> Enjoy!

The dwarfs, to Tyr's great satisfaction, were finally shaken out of their hateful gloating. Their eyes grew wide, they set their fists on their hips, and they talked over each other as they expressed their outrage to the All-Father. Odin, for his part, had by this point had enough disruptions to the routine of his court, and when they started making demands for Tyr's blood, he finally shut them up. "Enough!" he shouted, pounding a fist on the arm of this throne. "Brokkr, Eitri, it is not your place to make demands of this court. You will keep silent now, and present your case at the Thing this evening. General Tyr, what mean you by this threat, this stated desire to spill blood in my court?"

Ah, yes, there was the offense. How dare Tyr stand up for Odin's son, when Odin would not do so himself.

"Forgive me, All-Father, I did not think you would mind such a thing, since blood has already been spilled this day," Tyr said, just as calmly as he had spoken to the dwarfs. The court gasped, and Tyr decided he had pushed his luck far enough for now. The last thing he needed was to start a civil war, much though Odin might have earned it. "As for what I meant, it is quite simple. The dwarfs have committed violence against a prince of Asgard, and that is an offense punishable by war." The court began to murmur again, and while Tyr could not make out the words, the tone conveyed worry and outrage, both of which pleased him. Perhaps some of them were remembering that he was part of a council, made up of only himself, Odin, and one other, whose sole purpose was to decide between them whether or not Asgard would unleash mayhem on the other realms. Perhaps they were realizing that even if Odin did not wish to lift a finger to defend Loki, much less go to war for him, Tyr very well just might.

He went on, "You have already decided to withhold discussion of the matter until the Thing you will convene at this evening's feast, All-Father, and that is satisfactory to me. In the meantime, however, there is the matter of the damage done to Loki, which I as his foster father intend to undo." The subtext— _As you could not be bothered to undo_ —was obvious. Let the court chew on that for a while. "Since Hoenir tells me that the wire sewn into my foster son's face is enchanted in some fashion, and I am not a wielder of seidr to tell for certain what sort of enchantment it must be, I can only assume that the wire is protected against being broken by ordinary means. Therefore, I must conclude that the best way for a non-seidmadr such as myself to break the enchantment is to either obtain an enchanted blade to cut it, or else to kill the one who first placed the enchantment itself."

One of the dwarfs, probably Brokkr, spoke up. "Dwarfish enchantments are not so flimsy as that," he grated. "Killing us would do nothing to weaken the thread."

The shorter dwarf, Eitri, wrung his hands together. "And we have brought nothing with us to remove it."

"Then I suggest you either _find_ or _make_ something that will, before the evening's feast," said Tyr, "or I will claim both your lives as recompense for what you have done to my foster son."

"It is the Lie-Smith's just punishment for his deceit," insisted Brokkr.

"I doubt that very much," said Tyr. "Nevertheless, I will not speak here of matters best reserved for the Thing. I will simply remind you, as Loki's foster father, that you have until this evening to find a way to reverse what you have done, without causing further harm to the boy. Otherwise, I will claim both your lives, and send the weregild to Hreidmarr on the morrow."

Brokkr's mouth snapped shut. Tyr permitted himself a small smile.

"Now, then." Tyr stepped closer to Loki, and took Hoenir's place at his elbow. "Hoenir, please see to the cart containing Loki's belongings. All-Father, I thank you for your time. I have no further business before this court."

Odin eyed the little wagon containing the spear, the hammer, the golden wig, and the other wonders Loki had brought back from Nidavellir. "These are not Loki's possessions," he said; "they were gifts from him to this court, _before_ you decided to claim him as your son."

"They were, All-Father, yet forgive me; when you permitted him to be mutilated in front of all of us here assembled, I interpreted that as a rejection of his offerings." Tyr raised his eyebrows, and asked mildly, "Was I mistaken? I have never seen you utilize brutality as a show of gratitude before now."

Odin glared at him, but he could hear the whispers of the assembled court just as well as Tyr could; after a moment he waved his hand in dismissal, and Hoenir brought the cart over and fell into place behind Tyr and Loki.

"We will hear you at the Thing this evening," declaimed Odin. That was fine with Tyr; let Odin try to salvage what he could from today's fiasco. If it helped him feel better to pretend the Thing had been his idea all along, so be it.

Tyr gave his best courtly salute, then bowed, while Loki did his best to follow suit. The shift in position no doubt made his face throb in agony; Tyr could hear the soft noise of pain that he couldn't help but make. The boy wobbled as he straightened up, and Tyr squeezed his arm in reassurance. "Lean on me, lad, as much as you need."

There was silence throughout the hall, as Tyr and Loki turned and began the long walk down the aisle. Loki, as royal family, almost never used the public entrance; his doing so now drove home everything that had happened in court today as nothing else could. Odin had willingly given up his own son, after his weaponsmaster had publicly declared that the All-Father himself was unfit to hold any claim to Loki's wellbeing.

Oh, there would be repercussions from today's court for _decades_ to come.

"Does anyone else have business they wish to bring before this court?" This time, no one answered. No one even moved, all of them staring in horrified fascination at Loki's face.

The boy, naturally, tried to hide from them at first. "No," said Tyr quietly, "let them see." Loki glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, incredulously. "Walk tall and proud. You are Loki Odinsson-Tyrsson, and you have done nothing to be ashamed of. Let them see that not even this is enough to break the likes of you." He struggled to keep the anger out of his voice as he added, "Let them see the barbarity they were willing to allow today, and let them be _shamed_ for it. Do not let them get away with denying ownership of what their complacency has done to harm you."

And so they moved, slowly, heads held high, the full length of the hall. Behind them, Tyr heard Odin speak the usual words to close the day's court, but not one person moved from the audience as they walked.

Tyr had ample time to examine the faces of those they passed. He saw shock, and horror at the ruin of Loki's mouth. There were a few expressions of hostility, but most of those gave way to confusion or speculation as the three of them marched past, just as Tyr thought they might. The court knew how to treat Loki, the second prince of Asgard, the throwaway, expendable son that Odin didn't care about overmuch. They were less sure how to behave toward Loki, foster-son of Tyr, Asgard's intimidating chief general who very clearly did care about his new son, enough to defy the All-Father himself on his behalf.

Let them wonder. Let them reevaluate. Most of these people had gone too long without pausing to think for themselves outside of what Odin demonstrated or dictated as proper behavior. If making them question the natural order of things was an outcome of today's events, then that was all to the good as far as Tyr was concerned.

At last they reached the public entrance to the great hall, and passed through the massive archway. The instant they did, Tyr heard the voices of the masses begin to rise behind them. Good.

* * *

Loki, naturally, knew intimately just how many steps away from the doorway they needed to go before they were out of sight of the people inside, and waited until precisely then to let himself slump in pain and residual shock. Tyr caught him, and supported him around the waist as he drew Loki's arm across his shoulder. "It's all right, my prince. I've got you. Only a little farther, and then you can rest. I swear it."

Tyr flagged down a nearby servant, who was watching them with wide eyes. With brisk efficiency, he sent the boy and Hoenir ahead to Loki's chambers, to protect Loki's belongings from anyone who might decide to liberate a few things before Loki left the palace. Tyr ordered another servant to fetch the Lady Eir.

"Describe for her what you see here," he said, "then tell her to bring with her anything that is good for breaking enchantments. The wire is spelled not to be removed."

"Yes, my lord," said the boy. He tangled his fingers together nervously. "My lord?"

"What is it?"

"Is… is His Highness going to be all right?" The servant bit his lip, but he couldn't seem to keep from darting little glances at Loki.

Tyr softened. "He will, if we all help him together. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord. My prince," he added, with a little bow, and ran off.

A third servant, a girl a little older than the last one, stepped up to them as they walked. "Forgive my interruption, my lord, my prince, but is there anything else you might need? Anything I can do?"

Tyr thought for a second. "Send word to the kitchens," he said finally. "His Highness and I shall take our meal privately, in His Highness's chambers. Ask the cooks to prepare broth, or mild tea; anything that will go well on an upset stomach or help to settle overwrought nerves."

"Of course, my lord. My prince." She hurried ahead of them, then ducked into a servants' entrance and vanished.

Tyr asked Loki, "Do you wish to take the servants' path as well?"

Loki took a breath, then shook his head no. Tyr shouldn't have been surprised, really.

"Very well." The boy no doubt had plenty of practice hanging onto his pride in the face of humiliation, but for the moment that was all right. There were advantages to remaining out here in public, even though it was the longer route to his chambers, but Tyr suspected that Loki probably already knew that.

"You did very well, in there, holding your head high; I am proud of you." Loki blinked in surprise, and Tyr fought another wash of anger that he should be so startled by simple praise. "But I also know how exhausting that sort of performance can be, so for now, save your strength. All right?"

Loki nodded, closing his eyes in fatigue for just a moment. Tyr patted the arm draped across his shoulders encouragingly.

So they made their way down the corridor, while the great hall finally began to empty behind them. Every few steps, their path was crossed by some noble or other, or a member of the general populace, or one of the many palace servants. The ones who had been in court either paused to study Loki's face, as if expecting the damage they'd seen to be some sort of trick, or else glanced at him furtively and then hustled away with whispers and worried expressions. The ones who hadn't been in court all stopped in their tracks and stared in horror, and a few cried out in dismay at the sight. Tyr supposed it was all the more shocking that it was _Loki_ in this state: the polished, perfectly groomed prince, hanging bloody and disheveled off of Tyr's shoulder and beginning to stumble his steps. Some thought to approach, perhaps to offer help; Tyr warned them off with a shake of his head, but remembered their faces for later. It was always good to know who one's allies were.

* * *

Finally they reached Loki's rooms; Hoenir was waiting for them outside. "I would have gone in as you commanded, my lord, but the doors are locked."

"Have you the key?" Tyr asked Loki, and in response, the boy froze, giving them a wary look. Tyr simply waited calmly, and after a moment, Loki shuffled forward and laid one shaking palm against the door. There was a click, and it swung open easily.

"I'm impressed," said Tyr, and meant it. What in the Nine was Odin doing? Even if he had never loved Loki as he should have, even if he had never thought of himself as a father at all, he was a fool to even consider throwing away the kind of resource Loki represented. It was going to be Tyr's genuine pleasure to get to know the son Odin had so foolishly discarded.

The first room of Loki's apartment was a typical receiving area, with plenty of places to sit; they got Loki into a padded chair with a side table near it, and he sagged visibly. One hand strayed up toward his face, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to touch the dwarfs' handiwork.

"All right, lad. Let's see what we can do to get those damnable stitches out of you." Tyr unbuckled his ceremonial breastplate and vambraces, laid them across another couch, and began rolling up his sleeves. "Hoenir, fetch a basin."

"Of course, sir."

Loki looked up at his two guests warily, then sat up with wide eyes as Hoenir disappeared through the doorway. Tyr positively _hated_ the look of helplessness on his face in that instant.

"Boy. Loki! Listen to me." He waited until Loki had turned to stare at him. "I give you my solemn vow that once you are moved into my home, Hoenir and I, and everyone else in the house, will show you the respect that you deserve. And that includes respecting your privacy. But right now, we need to help you, and you are unable to simply direct us to wherever you keep the things that we need. I apologize for invading your chambers this way, and I will not do so again without your permission, but right now, it is necessary. Do you understand?"

Loki looked away, his eyes fretful. It occurred to Tyr to wonder just how much the boy believed anything that came out of Tyr's mouth. It wasn't as though trust came easily to him, given the way he'd been treated ever since he'd reached adolescence.

Well, they could follow that trail later.

Hoenir returned with a basin and pitcher of warm water, washcloths and towels, and what looked like the standard repair kit that was issued to every warrior old enough to own their own set of armor. That could be handy. There was also a large, empty bowl that he set onto Loki's lap.

"For the blood, my prince," he said gently, guiding Loki's hands around the bowl. "Try not to swallow any more than is strictly necessary."

Tyr drew his dagger again, and examined the blade carefully. "Well, now," he said. "Since the wire is enchanted, I don't really expect this to work, but I want to make sure we explore all our options. All right?"

Loki tensed, but nodded, and Tyr dropped to his knees beside the boy's chair.

"All right, then. Easy does it." He steadied Loki's chin in his free hand, and carefully slipped the tip of the dagger under one of the stitches in the center of his lips, where he might be marginally less sensitive. Slowly, with the patience that had made him famous on the battlefield, he increased the pressure on the wire, taking care not to cut the boy's face with the remainder of his blade.

Loki squeezed his eyes shut, but held himself still. Fresh blood welled up from the punctures, and the boy gasped, his eyes watering from the pain. Tyr stopped.

"About what I figured," he said. "But I had an idea, on our way here."

Loki glanced up.

"Enchanted thread can't be cut except by an enchanted blade, right?" Loki gave a little shrug and a nod. "And those two sons of a boar and a pile of dung might have brought an enchanted blade with them, but likely not. However…" Tyr got up, and stepped across to the cart holding Loki's treasures. He lifted up the spear—Gungnir, Loki had called it—and examined its head. "Do I remember correctly that, when you presented this to Odin, you said it was enchanted never to miss its target?" He turned back and watched the dawning realization spread across the boy's face. "Supposing its target was that line of stitches, hm?"

Loki flashed him a hand-signal: _Attempt._

"I was hoping you might say that." It was the work of a moment to slide the side table out of the way and position himself a step or two to the side of Loki's chair. Tyr grounded the butt of Gungnir and braced his foot against it so it would not slide, then lowered the spear point until it hovered between Loki's lap and his face. "Hoenir, guide his head."

Loki brought one hand up to rest the spear haft along his fingertips, then cautiously brought his face down to meet the blade. He paused while Hoenir adjusted his position, then took a breath, shut his eyes, and kissed the very sharp, rune-carved edge.

Tyr heard a high-pitched _tink_ like the snapping of a harp string; Loki startled and gave a little cry of pain.

Hoenir leaned in close to squint at Loki's mouth. "Very good, masters," he said; "that is one stitch cut. There are twelve more, my prince. Shall I guide you?"

One by one, the stitches snapped as Loki brought them to touch the blade of Gungnir. When it was done, Tyr moved the spear carefully out of the way, while Loki leaned forward over the bowl in his lap and clumsily spat. Blood and saliva oozed from between the loosened stitches, and Loki wrinkled his nose in disgust.

Hoenir soaked one of the washcloths in the basin and passed it to Loki, who took it gratefully. He squeezed his chin and scrubbed off the worst of the congealing blood, then carefully dabbed at his lips before passing the cloth back to Hoenir. Tyr noted with interest that now that the enchantment was broken, the wire was no longer bright gold, but instead a dull, dirty white, like unbleached sinew.

"This next part will likely sting," warned Tyr, "but the sooner it is done, the sooner we can clean you up."

"Y-yuh," Loki began, then winced a little and subsided.

"And the sooner you can speak properly," Tyr added. He unwrapped Loki's armor-repair kit and found the pair of small pliers. Loki clutched the arms of his chair, eying the implement with obvious trepidation. "I shall be quick, but I shall also try my best not to cause you more pain. If it helps, though, I think you have been very brave so far."

Confusion distracted Loki from his worry. "Nn," he said, shaking his head.

Tyr shrugged. "As you please. But there are not many I would claim to be stronger than you in the face of pain, and fear, and all the rest that you dealt with today." He held up the pliers. "Just a little longer, now."

And he knelt once more beside Loki's chair, and steadied his foster son's head with his free hand, and got to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, you all have my thanks and my... well, my bewilderment at the massive outpouring of support for this story. I mean, I feel like I'm suddenly famous or something, it's bizarre. So to take a little of the focus off of me, I'm going to encourage you all to read a fic from a friend of mine, who is posting it to AO3 for th very first time. It's called "Changing Fate", and it's by melWinter. She's posting a chapter a day right now, unless the chapter is very short. You'll want to find it now while it's still in the early, short chapters, because it will be headed to Epicville inside of a couple weeks here.


	3. Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter pissed me off. When I'm not sure how to proceed, I tend to fall into the trap of writing every useless, pointless, meandering little detail, which kills the pacing and bogs everything down and is just plain boring to read. And then I need to go back and figure out ways to tighten the story back up, cut superfluous words, and all of that, and it's a pain. And this chapter? THIS CHAPTER. I've read it too many times to even make sense of it, and it's quite a bit longer than I wanted it to be, and it still doesn't quite feel right. But I chopped as much as I could stand to chop, and finally included the beginnings of the conversation I wanted to have in Chapter 2. So hopefully it doesn't suck.

It hurt just as much as Tyr feared it would, pulling the broken threads from Loki's lips. A single stitch meant two puncture wounds, one on each lip, and all of them had already begun to close around the thread piercing them. While Tyr worked, Loki struggled to keep his breathing even; his hands clutched the arms of his chair in a white-knuckled grip as tears he couldn't control leaked from the corners of his eyes. Every now and again, he would raise his hand and touch Tyr's wrist, and Tyr would stop long enough for his foster son to spit more blood into the bowl on his lap and get his reactions back under control. He was a shaking, sweating mess before Tyr was even four stitches in. Eight puncture wounds, freshly reopened, through sensitive flesh. Tyr couldn't blame him.

For his part, Tyr simply pressed his own lips together and projected calm, working slowly but methodically and keeping a lid on his rage until he could make better use of it later. He had been a soldier for a very, very long time, and had seen his fair share of atrocities, but what the dwarfs had done to Loki was in a class with only a handful of other incidents that had taken place over the long centuries of Tyr's career. If he were feeling more generous, he might be inclined to concede that perhaps Odin hadn't really understood just how far Brokkr and Eitri had intended to take their punishment.

Unfortunately for Odin, Tyr had been too generous in explaining away the king's motives for far too long, and he wasn't feeling especially inclined to do so ever again. Even if Odin hadn't realized what the dwarfs planned, that still didn't explain why he didn't put a stop to it before the awl even touched his son's lips. Eight puncture wounds, and a foster son who was barely keeping his composure, and they were only a third of the way done.

Well. Odin would come to understand the magnitude of his error before much longer, as the political fallout from today spread like ripples in a still pond. As for the dwarfs… Tyr's eyes narrowed, and he only barely kept the snarl off his face. Those two would learn soon enough that the bloodthirsty reputation of the Aesir was well-earned.

Someone knocked on the door; Loki startled, then cried out as the sinew Tyr was still holding yanked at his lip.

"Hoenir!" He let go of the sinew just in time, as Loki startled again at the anger in his voice. His valet moved to the door while Tyr took a deep breath through his nose. He glanced up, and was dismayed to see Loki staring at him in fear. Damn. So much for keeping calm for the boy's sake. "I'm not angry at you, Loki, nor even at Hoenir. I'm angry at what was done to you. You've nothing to fear from me."

Loki's expression didn't change much. No, of course the boy wouldn't believe him. Why should he?

"Chief Healer Eir, masters," said Hoenir. It was about damn time.

"Show her in."

"General. My prince." Eir was a stocky woman with iron-gray hair and strong hands, and she tended to move as if she were impatient with someone else's incompetence. "Tell me, General, what in the name of the Nine do you think you are doing to that poor boy's face?"

"Removing the stitches before the wounds have a chance to close," he said, standing up and moving out of her way. Despite her mannerisms, Tyr liked her; she had the same low tolerance for pointlessness that he did.

"I thought the thread was enchanted. Look at me, please, my prince." For all her brusqueness, Eir cupped the boy's jaw gently, tipping his head from side to side as she examined the brutal mess.

"It was, Healer. We got lucky. Loki happened to have an enchanted blade to hand that did the trick."

"Hm. Saves a bit of time, then." She touched Loki's upper lip gently, just with her fingertip, and frowned when he flinched back. "Tsk. It did not occur to you to apply any sort of painkiller, General?"

He raised his eyebrows and said mildly, "Given that my destination this morning was court and not the battlefield, Healer, I did not think to bring my full kit with me."

Eir eyed him sidelong at that. "Your idea of wit is not appreciated." She let go of Loki's face and sorted through her satchel, pulling out a vial and dropper. "This will feel cold, my prince, and then you should go completely numb. And of course I remember how much you hate that, so I've brought the antidote as well, which I will give you once the stitches are removed."

Loki nodded and tipped his head back, looking resigned.

"Not going to complain about the tools I used, Healer?" Tyr asked.

"Not really, no." Eir finished dabbing the numbing solution onto Loki's mouth, both inside and out, and they both watched as Loki sighed in relief and slumped a little in his seat, before straightening again with a self-conscious glance at them both. The healer reached into her bag and held up a pair of needle-nosed medical pliers that were virtually identical to the ones Tyr had been using. "Now, stop distracting me."

With Loki unable to feel any more pain, and with Eir able to use seidr as Tyr could not, the work went much more quickly. The chief healer used the stroke of a fingertip and a brush of seidr to loosen each stitch before removing it, then a second gesture to seal the injury with a flicker of gold light. Loki looked out of the corner of his eye briefly as she set the discarded sinew onto the side table, before shutting his eyes for a second, and returning to staring at the ceiling.

"It may not have been a warzone," Eir remarked, not looking up from her work, "but from what I hear you managed to find plenty of battle this morning anyway."

Tyr's anger, barely damped, stirred at that. "Look at the damage you are undoing here, and tell me you would have done differently."

Eir stopped and glared at him for a moment, then sighed. "Would that my position were as secure as yours," she said. "I've tended to the aftermath of Odin's actions more than once, but there is a limit to how far I may protest them. If I were to push too far, Asgard would find itself with a new Chief Healer, and I doubt not Odin would be sure to find a less outspoken replacement for the one he has now."

Tyr thought that over. "I am glad Loki has other allies within the palace, even if you are limited in what you may do for him. I had wondered," he said after a moment. "You say Odin has done things like this more than once?"

"Not precisely, no," said Eir as she worked. "Certainly nothing on this scale. More that he allowed things to happen when others took it into their heads to express their displeasure with the prince. Some of those brutes you train, usually. And then he'd try to tell Loki that _he_ must have done something to draw their attention. Hmph." She sat back and set her pliers back on the side table. "All done, my prince. Ah-ah, don't spit; your lips are still numb, you'll only make a mess." Eir pulled out a new vial from her bag and smeared some sort of greasy ointment onto Loki's mouth. "Give that a minute to work, and when you can feel your face again, you're free to go."

"Any lasting damage, Healer?" asked Tyr.

"No, you'll be pleased to hear. For all that I don't usually appreciate amateurs attempting to do my job, it really was best that you started on removing that thread as quickly as you did." She stepped back to give Tyr a better view. "The site of the wounds may be a bit tender for the rest of today as they finish healing, but this redness you see here will be gone by morning. Won't even leave a scar, my prince."

Loki leaned forward and spat more blood into the bowl on his lap. "Thank you, Healer Eir," he said. He kept his voice down, and would not look up at either of them.

Eir's face softened, and she rested a hand on the boy's head for a moment. "The offer still stands, my prince," she said. "Anytime you wish to come talk to me, I will be happy to listen."

"I know." He brought one hand up to touch his lip. "And… I thank you. For the offer."

The healer sighed again. "Perhaps someday you will take me up on it." She let her hand linger a little longer, then shook her head to herself and packed up her things. With a nod to each of them, she made her way to the door, then paused. "My prince… I know it may not seem like it now, but I really think you will find that your fortunes begin to change, from this day forward. For the better. The general here might be a warmonger without a drop of seidr in his veins, but he's a good man. You'll be in good hands with him."

Tyr hadn't been expecting that. It was pleasing to know that the respect went in both directions; more pleasing still to know that the chief healer would continue to support Loki while he made the transition to his new life as Tyr's foster son. If Tyr did not miss his guess, Odin had already put effort into isolating the boy from potential friends or allies. "Such flattery, Healer."

"What have I said about your idea of wit?" But the corner of her mouth curled up, and she sketched a little bow before closing Loki's door behind her.

* * *

There was silence for just a moment, before Tyr heard Hoenir begin to clean things up. He took a long breath and let it out slowly, before turning back to face them. "Now, then. Loki. Are you still in any pain?"

"No. No, sir."

"I am glad to hear it," he said with a nod. "Now. We've a busy day ahead of us before this evening's feast, and I would prefer to take advantage of every spare moment we can until then. We have had good fortune so far; breaking that enchantment as quickly as we did has bought us quite a bit more time to make use of. For now, however, I think you would feel better if you were to clean up, change clothes—your shirt is ruined, unfortunately—and once that is done, then we can plan together over lunch. Does this sound agreeable?"

"Yes, sir." His foster son nodded, but he still sounded miserable, and far more subdued than Tyr would like. That was only to be expected, given the outright torture that the boy had just endured, but Tyr still worried. It would not do to leave Loki in such a state for any longer than he needed to process all that had happened.

"Did you have any questions you wanted to ask before we get started?"

There was a long pause. "No, weaponsmaster."

Hm. "I think perhaps I do not believe you," Tyr said, and frowned as the boy all but cringed in his seat, "but I have no objection to delaying our conversation until you have bathed and taken some time for yourself. In the meantime, have you pen and parchment that I can make use of while I wait?"

"In my study, weaponsmaster." Loki took a shaky breath and made to stand; Tyr and Hoenir both caught his elbows as his knees tried to buckle. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

"Nonsense," they both answered simultaneously, and Loki finally looked up at them in surprise. It was Tyr who continued. "You went through a major ordeal less than an hour past, and you are far too young to be asked to endure such things in the first place. Some degree of shock in the aftermath is only to be expected. Indeed, if it helps you to know such things, you are managing better than many a seasoned veteran."

"Just take a moment to get your legs under you, my prince," added Hoenir. "And if you feel lightheaded at all—"

"I—I know what to do," said Loki. He pulled away from them tentatively, and stepped away once it was clear that he could keep his feet. "I'll just—I—" He stopped, blew out a breath, and clenched his fists a few times. "General—weaponsmaster—if you would follow me, I can show you to my desk."

"One thing first, if I may, my prince," Hoenir stopped him. "It happens that have a little seidr myself. Not more than a thimbleful compared to you, I think! But it occurred to me that you might want something special done to dispose of the blood. Do I recall correctly, that burning is appropriate?"

Loki blinked at that. "Um. Yes. If you could just pour it into the fire, that would be sufficient. The… the bowl doesn't need to be destroyed, just scoured really well. The sand in the bucket at the hearth will do, and then rinse it and sprinkle the inside with a bit of ash."

"It shall be done, my prince."

Loki looked at Tyr's valet as if unsure whether he'd really just had that conversation. He'd certainly seemed cautious about showing them his own seidr earlier. Something else for Tyr to pursue, perhaps over their meal later.

"Your study?" he prompted.

They left Hoenir to his puttering in the receiving area, and Loki led Tyr into the next room. Where the receiving area had boasted plenty of chairs for guests and a handful of hunting trophies on the wall, this space carried less of a public façade; the walls were covered in bookshelves and cabinets, with only a set of well-oiled weapons and a tafl board on display, and a few curios from other realms scattered at random on the shelves. The desk was large and well-appointed, obviously used often and not just a showpiece like some Tyr had seen, and there was a second worktable beneath one window, currently covered with a handful of books and what looked like a large map. The room gave an overall impression of Loki as a scholar, someone who traveled and who liked both to read and to think on and use what he learned.

Once again, Tyr was struck by pleased anticipation at the thought of learning more about his new foster son. Loki's public persona was well-crafted, and did not give away much about who he really was, but Tyr suspected the boy was a true treasure underneath, someone he would be honored to know in the years to come.

"I keep fresh parchment in the top drawer," Loki said, then winced; he started to touch his mouth before halting the motion.

"This will do nicely," Tyr replied. "Go get cleaned up. Take as much time as you need." He would keep an ear out while he worked, and check in on the boy if necessary, but there was no need to embarrass him by saying so.

"Yes, General."

* * *

Tyr worked quickly, crafting a small stack of orders and correspondence that would get the wheels turning on everything he and Loki needed to accomplish today. There were several mundane matters surrounding Loki's fostering, everything from requesting Loki's academic and medical records to arranging for Loki's things to be moved to Tyr's house, followed by instructions to Tyr's treasurer to withdraw a very specific sum of gold and silver, to have on hand before the Thing began. Finally, narrowing his eyes in thought, he crafted a letter for Dvalin—Tyr's counterpart on Nidavellir, the chief general of King Hreidmarr's armies—and a second for Hreidmarr himself. Tyr was almost certain he had heard of Brokkr and Eitri before today, but couldn't recall where; any details he could gather about the two of them could only be useful, later tonight.

At last he was finished, and he rummaged about in the drawers looking for sealing wax. He found it eventually, but not before uncovering an ink sketch of a pretty girl, carefully hidden under what looked like private correspondence. Tyr smiled; neither the girl nor the letters were any of Tyr's business, but it was good to know his foster son wasn't completely cut off from having friends.

Finally, Tyr gathered up his letters and passed them to Hoenir to deliver. "Find a courier for the rest of them," he said, "but I want you to take this packet to Heimdall personally. He is to deliver it to Nidavellir with all haste. Depending on what Heimdall sees there, it might be wise to wait at the observatory for a response."

"Of course, my lord."

There was more to do yet, but much of it at this point consisted of waiting for other people to contact him. And collecting information from Loki, of course. Speaking of… the boy ought to have finished cleaning up by now. Had something happened? Tyr crossed back into the study and moved to listen at the door that led into Loki's bedroom.

The door was partway open, and Tyr could see Loki seated cross-legged on the side of the bed facing his wardrobe, hunched over with his head in his hands. His hair was damp, and he was mostly dressed but still barefoot, with a clean overtunic, belt, and other such things in a little pile beside him.

Tyr stepped into the room, shuffling his feet a little so as not to startle the boy, and sat beside him on the bed. He said nothing, and did not touch Loki, not sure if he was the sort of person to appreciate that kind of thing; instead, he waited patiently, and after a few minutes, Loki spoke.

"What is to become of me?" He took a shaky breath, and added, "What are you going to do to me?"

"I take it you fear it will be nothing good," said Tyr. Loki shook his head without looking up, slowly, wearily. "Care to offer your speculation?"

"You… I failed Father, and was punished for it," he began, and Tyr winced but held his tongue. Best to let the boy have his say without interrupting him. "And then you, you _claimed_ me, in front of all of Asgard. Father has, has handed me over to his weaponsmaster for… I know not what, but—but you told him you might have a better way of, he called it 'curbing my lying tongue'. And I am to submit to you. It was in those vows. And you told him you were going to confiscate my things… you said I am to leave the palace. I am to leave my _family._ And I don't—I've tried to please Father, but I don't… and I at least know _him_ , but _you_ —General, I don't—I don't even know what to _call_ you."

Blast and damn. Tyr might have expected this; he'd noticed before that Loki was one who never stopped thinking, but he'd forgotten that the boy was also still young. Young enough and uncertain enough that, without sufficient information, he was more than capable of letting his fears run away from him and letting them concoct elaborate nightmares, which he would then take as truth.

"Well, I think we're both a bit too old for me to suddenly insist you call me 'Papa'." Tyr counted it a personal victory when he surprised a laugh out of the boy, however hastily he covered it. "In my personal opinion, calling me 'General' seems too formal for what we will be to one another, and 'weaponsmaster' is accurate enough, it only really applies between us when we are on the training grounds. Other than that, I have no particular preference. Anything you deem respectful is fine. All right?"

"Yes, sir." His head was still in his hands, but the line of Loki's shoulders seemed less tense. "Um. Thank you."

Tyr nodded, though the boy would not see it. "If I understand you correctly, you thought you were to become some sort of prisoner in my home, until I managed to break you in to Odin's satisfaction, or some such thing?"

Loki hunched a little smaller, but mumbled, "I suppose it sounds stupid when you say it out loud. I just—" He sighed. "Everything is too much. Sir."

"Everything got away from you, your life was flipped upside down in the space of a few minutes, and now you're struggling to keep your composure when you have no idea what is to happen to you," said Tyr. Loki nodded, and Tyr reached up and rested a hand on his shoulder. When the boy didn't flinch, he squeezed it reassuringly. "I can promise you it won't be as bad as you are thinking. Perhaps you were in enough pain at the time that you do not clearly recall the vows I spoke. Or perhaps you felt that you had no choice in that moment but to agree to follow them or else face worse torment. But I swore to provide for you and to offer you guidance—" He paused when Loki twitched under his hand. "What is it?"

"You'll probably just say I'm being stupid."

"Mm. How about you let me decide what I think is stupid and what isn't?"

Loki dropped one hand into his lap and scrubbed the other through his hair. "Share bounty and offer guidance. That was what the vow said. But there is a lot of… of leeway there, as far as _how much_ bounty to share and _what kind_ of guidance to offer. Or inflict. I, um… I'm familiar with the idea of the legal euphemism."

Tyr almost chuckled. The boy was a sly one, underneath the aloof façade that he wore in public. "And I suppose you've heard some of the rumors that the veterans like to spread about me to terrorize the new recruits."

Loki stilled, and looked up for the first time. "Rumors? Sir?"

Now Tyr did chuckle. "I've been the general of Odin's armies for centuries. I've been called a fearsome warrior and a legendary tactician by some, though between you and me I think that was just flattery. But with that sort of reputation, the lower ranks are often intimidated before they even meet me, and there have been a handful of stories that have circulated over the years, either inflated from what really happened or else made up entirely. Whichever tale is most popular seems to rotate with the passing of years, like crows returning to the nest every damn spring." He rolled his eyes. "One of the current favorites claims that when I pull a student aside for 'special instruction', what I'm really after is a good wrestle in the mud by the riverbank followed by a bit of cheerful buggery."

Loki coughed in surprise. "I, uh, I hadn't heard that one… and anyway you don't really seem the type. Sir." Tyr chuckled, and Loki sat up a little straighter. "It's just, this fostering. I've never heard of such a thing happening before."

"We are fortunate to live in a civilized realm where children are not often mistreated by their parents, but this is not the first time I've invoked my authority to foster a student. The last one was," he thought back for a moment, "a few centuries ago, I think. You might not have even learned to walk by then. But the boy's mother had died suddenly, and the father turned to drink to ease the pain of his grief. And then he began to take out his suffering on the boy. I intervened, for him and his younger sister. They lived with me for a few decades, and eventually the father was declared fit to raise them again, and they returned home."

"What… what happened to them while they lived with you?"

"Happened _to_ them?" Tyr shrugged. "Nothing happened to them. They lived with me, and I took over the duties of fatherhood for them. Saw to their schooling, kept them out of trouble. Evaluated the boys who thought themselves worthy suitors for the girl's hand. Brought them with me on a few journeys to other realms. Provided for their general upkeep, you know, clothing and food and regular visits to the healers, that sort of thing." He tipped his head thoughtfully. "I understand that you were in no fit state to think clearly when we underwent the fostering ceremony, and you've likely conjured some terrible scenarios because of it, but I want to be clear: I swore to uphold my duties as weaponsmaster to protect a student in my care who was being mistreated by others. It is not my aim to replace one source of misery with another."

Loki took a deep breath, a thoughtful expression on his face. Tyr found he much preferred it to the look of hopelessness or tense dread that he had seen so far today. He patted Loki's shoulder once more and stood.

"I noticed you have a tafl board in your study. Do you play?"

Thoughtfulness gave way to confusion. "I—yes. Not very often, but… why? Sir."

Tyr shrugged. "I find conversations go best over tafl, mainly. Here you are, as we already said, with your life flipped upside down and in desperate need of some answers as to what is going to happen to you. Here I am, with a foster son I was not expecting to claim when I woke up this morning, and a need to get to know him at least a little bit beyond what I already know from the training grounds. As my foster son, you have a right to those answers, and as your foster father I am more than willing to provide them. In fact, I was actually hoping that we would have time for a good, long conversation today, and since we are ahead of schedule currently, now seems the perfect time to have it. So I am offering you as much information as you like, traded for a bit of information in turn, over a game or three of tafl."

Loki thought that over for a second, then nodded. "That… that sounds agreeable, sir. Thank you."

Tyr nodded toward the doorway. "You finish getting dressed, and I will set up the board."


	4. Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyr and Loki talk over a game of Viking chess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit not a whole lot happens in this one; important conversation, but as usual, the thing I meant to get to, I didn't get to. Remember the innocent days when I kept saying this would only be three chapters long? Hahaha, ahhh, yeah.

"Red or white?" Tyr asked, pulling chairs around from the desk and worktable as Loki emerged from his bedroom. The board was set with handsome pieces carved from red jasper and marbled white howlite; the wood itself was inlaid with silver around the borders of the grid, tracing the shapes of fanciful, interlaced creatures.

"The guest may choose," said Loki automatically, before he paused. "Sir."

Tyr thought about it. Perhaps the boy would feel more relaxed in conversation if he could be more aggressive on the board. "I shall take red, then," he said. "It is rare enough for me to defend on the battlefield, I would prefer to do so here." Along the same lines, he opted to sit with his back to the door, so that Loki might face it and feel more at ease.

Loki took his seat a bit self-consciously. "I… as host, I feel I ought to offer you something to drink, but as a… as a foster son…"

"I understand," said Tyr. "The thought is appreciated, but I do not require anything for now."

Loki nodded, and moved his first piece. They played in silence for a few minutes; Tyr kept his eyes on the board, but could still watch in his peripheral vision as Loki alternated between looking at his pieces and studying him. That was all right; Tyr had no particular need to press the boy to talk before he was ready, and it would do much to set him at ease if he could control the conversation.

Tyr had just reached out to move one of his pieces before it could be captured when Loki finally braced himself to speak. "You referred earlier to a schedule, or an agenda of things you wish to accomplish today," he said, licking his lips gingerly. "I wish to know what that entails."

"Of course," said Tyr. "It boils down to two tasks, in the main. By day, we manage the process of transferring you and your belongings from the palace to my home—our home. Come nightfall, it will be time to deal with political matters, at the Thing."

Loki froze, nonplussed; apparently he had expecting to have to fight Tyr for every scrap of information, and wasn't sure how to proceed in the face of such candor. Tyr smiled; the boy's foundations had been knocked out from under him in the blink of an eye, but he still had been prepared to stand his ground until he got what he wanted, still refused to cower. "I did say that I was perfectly willing to give answers to your questions."

"You would really answer any question I asked?"

"You can ask anything you like," said Tyr. "As for answers, I do reserve the right not to give you one if I think it is necessary. But even then, I would tell you why I refused. But yes, you may ask whatever you wish. You have a right not to be kept in the dark about your own fate."

Loki took that in for a moment, his eyes on the board. "All right," he said as he moved a piece. "In that case, what does it mean that you are transferring me and my belongings to your home? What am I permitted to take? Will I ever be allowed to leave?" Then his eyes widened and he snapped his mouth shut.

Ah. "You are not being punished here, Loki." The boy blushed, and Tyr went on. "I will say it again. You are to be my foster son. That is not a 'legal euphemism', as you put it. You are not to be my prisoner." Tyr sighed; he had hoped to bring up this topic a bit more gradually, given all the shocks the boy had already endured, but it seemed there was no help for it. "I realize that no young man ever wishes to hear another speak ill of his family, but the simple truth is that Odin has proven himself unfit to raise you, by the way he allowed you to be treated. From what I know of you, you are intelligent, resourceful, well-mannered, and thoughtful—by which I mean not only that you are considerate of others but that you are always thinking. I've seen it in your training. You do not blindly rush in to dangerous situations, nor trust to the luck of the young and the stupid to be your salvation."

"Like Thor," Loki offered, with a tentative smile.

"Heh. Indeed, but we are not talking about him. We are talking about you." Loki's face fell, and Tyr suppressed another surge of irritation towards his king, for making his foster son feel scolded every time someone spoke to him. He folded his arms along the edge of the board and leaned over them, to catch Loki's gaze and hold it. "What I am trying to say, Loki, is that Odin does not deserve you, and I do not regret in the slightest taking you from him this morning. I do not want you to think of what is happening here as a punishment, because I certainly do not intend for it to be so. If anything, I intend it as a rescue, and my only regret in any of this is that I did not act to protect you sooner."

Loki glanced away, then brought one hand up to touch his lips thoughtfully. "You took me from my fa—from Odin's—" he looked up helplessly.

"You may call him whatever you like," said Tyr, and again, Loki seemed surprised that Tyr didn't try to halt the conversation or berate him for his opinions.

"You took me from Father's… custody, I suppose," he said, "and I understand that. But you also named my mother. What of her? And… and what of Thor?"

Tyr took a deep breath. "I stand by my words in the throne room," he said finally; "the queen is your mother and ought to have done more to protect you. She has failed you, more than once, when you needed her most. That said—"

"But am I forbidden from seeing her? Will you keep her from me?"

"No. No, I will not. As I was about to say, I happen to know that she faces certain pressures which you may not be aware of, given your age. Political pressures, as a woman of the Vanir and Odin's war-bride."

"War-bride?"

"A history lesson for another time. I do not refuse to answer you," he added when Loki started to look mulish, "but I do not wish to be sidetracked when the efficient use of our time is so important today. All right?" After a moment, the boy nodded, and Tyr went on, "What I will say for the time being is that those political pressures do not make it _right_ that she has failed to protect you as she should, but they may offer an explanation which you can accept. And, I have a strong suspicion and hope that having you away from Odin will free her to show you more care than she felt safe to give you before."

Loki absorbed that, and Tyr could see the moment when he set it aside. "And Thor? You took me from Fa—from the All-Father's custody. Why not him?"

"Partly because, as far as I can tell, Thor has not been mistreated in the same way that you have. Odin is very uneven in his favor toward the two of you." Loki glanced away, a hurt expression on his face; of course he had noticed it before now. Probably spent sleepless nights trying to come up with an explanation why. "It also doesn't hurt that taking both princes away from the king would be tantamount to a declaration of war and an intent to claim the throne for myself."

Loki's mouth gave a wry twist. "Everything is politics."

"Indeed." Tyr moved another piece out of Loki's way on the board. "But to answer your question… I am displeased with Thor right now. I have the right to forbid him access to you until he shows something like regret for what he helped the dwarfs to do and learns to _think_ for once in his damned life."

"But is he still my brother?" And try though he might, there was no way he could disguise the trepidation he had to be feeling—worry, and longing, and need all woven together in his face and his voice, however much he worked to cover it.

"That, my boy, is entirely up to you. I do not wish to isolate you or cut you off from any relationships you have had with other friends up to this point. Anyone who cares about you is welcome to remain in your life, as far as I am concerned. Encouraged, for that matter. You may visit one another, including having them come to our home, although I do expect to be asked in advance whether the timing of such visits is convenient. As far as Thor is concerned," he added, leaning back in his seat, "if you can forgive him enough to still want him in your life, then he shall be. But at the same time, if you find you prefer to avoid his company for a little while, I will see to it that he does not bother you before you are ready to see him again."

Loki moved one of his pieces, setting up to trap Tyr's king again. Wily little tactician in the making; not as polished a player as some, but he was young yet and Tyr could see his potential in the way he was arraying his pieces, preparing for an attack on two fronts. "Knowing Thor, he will probably come by my chambers today, if Father hasn't forbidden him, frantic to apologize." His gaze slid away, and he added bitterly, "He was trying to say he was sorry the whole time he was holding me down."

Tyr sighed. "I thought he might be. I wonder if he truly understands what it is he should be apologizing for, though." He picked up a piece and tapped it against the board thoughtfully. "Just for today, if you are willing, I would like to prevent him from seeing you. Or at least, he may see you, but I want your face covered with a scarf or some such, and for you to refrain from speaking."

Loki frowned. "You don't want him to learn that the—that the stitches are gone already."

Tyr nodded. "Aye. That is exactly it."

He glanced away, thinking. "Why?"

Tyr pondered the board for another moment before he finally moved his piece. "It's nothing against Thor," he said. "I don't doubt he loves you in his fashion, nor do I think he feels anything but terrible over what he did to assist those miserable pit-dwellers when they hurt you. But I don't want _them_ to learn that their handiwork is undone, and your brother is not the greatest at dissembling or keeping his mouth shut when he needs to. If he learns it, then they will, and I would prefer that they spend today stewing in fear and scrambling to find a way to break their enchantment, rather than scheming and preparing for the Thing."

Loki took that in, starting to press his lips together in thought before giving a little grimace. "So I am still permitted to see my mother and brother," he said, returning to the earlier topic. "What about my belongings?"

"You have time before the noon meal to at least make a start at packing everything you wish to bring with you; I have arranged for porters to come after that to transport your things to my home—which, as I said, will be _our_ home. I admit it is not so grand a place as the royal palace, but I do not think you will be displeased. Certainly I have the space to accommodate what I have seen so far." He gestured to take in the study and its contents.

Loki leaned forward in his seat. " _Everything_ I wish to bring?"

Tyr drummed his fingers on the side of the board. "You will be living in my home from now on. As the vows said, until you come of age or until we mutually break the compact. Everything that you wish to bring with you, you may keep."

Loki blinked, and the look on his face made him seem even younger than he really was. "I—truly?"

Tyr shrugged. "Yes, of course. Why would I not? Do you have possessions you believe I might object to?"

Tyr could almost watch Loki's energy fold inward, something between wilting and cringing, even though he kept his face relatively impassive. Something in the tension of his shoulders, or the way he looked at the board rather than meet Tyr's gaze. "No, sir. Nothing important."

"Loki." The boy actually twitched, and Tyr didn't bother to hide his sigh this time. He set down the piece he had started to move, and rested both his hands on the edge of the board. "We do not know one another well, but given the times we have crossed paths on the training grounds, I would like to think you know my temper is fairly well-contained. Even if I am displeased with you, I am not about to leap across this table and attack you." He said the words with a wry smile and watched as Loki fidgeted his fingers together, but didn't really settle. Tyr leaned forward and softened his tone. "Nor do I intend to belittle you in the middle of a conversation where we are each still learning who the other is. I rather—" He pressed his lips together with a quick huff of breath. "I rather think you have had enough of that." He picked up the piece he had abandoned, and moved it into position.

"…I suppose so, sir."

"Now. I shall make a pact with you, if you are willing. I will always, always speak the truth to you. My only request is that you in turn speak the truth to me." Loki winced, and Tyr went on, "As your foster father, I cannot give you what you truly _need_ if you do not show me who you truly _are_. My sacred responsibility to you is not to condemn, but to guide. If you are doing something I do not like, I shall tell you. And I shall tell you _why_." Tyr very much doubted that Odin had ever bothered to go that far for the boy. "But I shall not shame you. I may not yet know you well, Loki, but what I do know of you, I like. I have no intention of trying to reshape you into something you are not." He ducked his head, trying to catch Loki's eye. "All right?"

The boy fussed and fidgeted a little, his hands working below the edge of the tafl board in an effort to hide his nervousness, but Tyr could see the moment where he braced himself, taking a deep breath, and took the first step toward trust.

"I—your servant," he said tentatively. "He admitted to having seidr."

"That's right. Not much, but he makes good use of what he has."

And that's—you allow that? Sir?"

"I'd be a fool not to," shrugged Tyr. "The capacity for seidr is an inborn talent that cannot be changed; it can't be trained into a person—or out of them, for that matter," he added on a hunch. "Trying to disallow it is pointless, like trying to disallow… left-handedness, or breathing. On top of that, while the capacity is inborn, actually _using_ seidr is a skill that can be honed, just as one can sharpen one's skill as a hunter, or a musician, or anything else. You'll find that I am very much dedicated to the idea of putting effort into bettering oneself, a little every day. We live for thousands of years, Loki; I have little patience for anyone who has that much time at their disposal, that much of an opportunity to develop and learn and grow, and chooses to squander it instead."

Loki was watching him like a hawk, now, his hands on the edge of the tafl board. "You're serious."

"I am," Tyr nodded. "I noticed you used seidr earlier," he probed carefully. "And from his words, I suspect Hoenir could feel it in you, which unfortunately I cannot. I gather you're quite strong in it, then?"

"I—" Loki tried to bite his lip nervously, and flinched. "I don't know how I compare to others, but… I _think_ I am above average in capacity, yes."

"And your belongings that you are worried about are things related to the practice of seidr."

"Yes, sir. It—books, mostly. A few objects of study, or that aid in my practice. Herbs, that sort of thing." The corner of his mouth quirked a little. "Quite a lot of kitchen supplies, actually. You know, mixing bowls, pitchers and bottles, just… little things like that." Which was nonsense, the boy was trying to downplay how important this was to him. Tyr might not have caught it, except that he'd known more than a few sorcerers in his time, and every last one of them had owned at least one specific piece of paraphernalia that they were _fanatically_ possessive about.

Well, at least he'd made an attempt to trust, even if he couldn't bring himself to hold to it for long. That was reasonable, considering everything. But Loki apparently also read the skepticism on Tyr's face, though he likely misinterpreted it. He sobered, and waited for Tyr's reaction.

Tyr shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "I have no objection to your bringing any of that with you," and watched as Loki once again tried to cover his surprise. "Would you prefer to keep those things in your sleeping quarters, or do you need a separate room for your practice? Hoenir has a private spot where he goes to attune with Yggdrasil, or something like that. As I said, I haven't a drop of seidr in me; I've no idea what he does."

The boy blinked in astonishment through all of Tyr's speech. "You're… you're really serious," he said finally. "You really mean it."

Tyr shrugged again. "'Course I do." A thought occurred to him then: "You'll have to tell me who your tutor is, so I can make the necessary arrangements…" He glanced over at the desk, thinking of how to word the letter.

"Oh. I, uh. I don't have one."

Tyr turned back toward the boy, raising his eyebrow, and Loki flushed uncomfortably.

"I mean, Mother taught me what she knew, when we first realized I had the capacity," he stammered. "But she… eventually she said she had no more to teach me and that I had outstripped her. And F-father didn't…" He looked away again, then down at his lap.

Tyr rolled his eyes, and didn't bother to hide it from Loki. "Let me guess, Odin is part of the old guard who think that such things should be divided by gender. Objecting to your practice because you weren't born a daughter."

The boy cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Something like that." And Tyr could certainly fill in the details to that map; Odin's contempt toward his supposed son had been in evidence long before today. Tyr had seen the way he scolded and shamed Loki for one thing or another (furtively, out of the sight of others, in alcoves and corridors that Tyr had happened across on his way to some other destination), but had tried to pass it off as the exception rather than the rule. Had tried to believe that Odin wasn't like that all the time.

Was it the boy's adolescence that had triggered Odin's mistreatment, as the princes' inheritance loomed closer and he made his decision whom to favor? Or was it the emergence of Loki's seidr, marking him too different from Odin and from his brother to be embraced?

"Hm," he said neutrally, not wanting to go too far into that topic. "That belief was disproven some time ago, as I recall; there are stubborn holdouts, of course, but there always are when cultural assumptions are overturned by fact. No matter. Instead of contacting your tutor, I suppose this means I shall simply arrange for you to have one for the first time."

Tyr moved a piece on the tafl board, and when he looked up, Loki's mouth was actually hanging open, as if he'd completely forgotten to even attempt to keep his composure. The boy tried to speak, closed his mouth, swallowed heavily, and tried again. "You… you would arrange for a seidr instructor. For me. Just like that?"

"Yes," he replied simply. "I'll have Hoenir look into it with me; since he uses seidr himself he should have a better idea of what to look for in a competent teacher. Expect him to sit you down for a discussion of your abilities later, though it might not be until tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." Tyr could see actual tears well up in Loki's eyes before he looked away, overcome but still unwilling to show it, and Tyr felt another surge of anger that he should be so overwhelmed by the notion of a person simply _doing their duty_ toward him.

Loki moved his own game piece with a hand that only barely shook; then he looked up, and it was time for Tyr to be a little overwhelmed at the sheer emotion Loki was allowing himself to show. Any remaining shock from court, all the worry and trepidation he'd felt since, was finally gone, and Tyr could finally read hope there, untainted by fear.

"Thank you, sir," was all he said, but it was enough.


	5. Thor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thor drops in, and we gain a new perspective.

Tyr and Loki continued their game with a good deal less tension between them. "You play well," Tyr remarked, dodging yet another attempt to capture his king. "You said you don't play very often?"

"I don't," confirmed Loki. "Well. I used to, but Thor grew bored of it after a while." He glanced away.

"Shame," said Tyr casually. "The strategies played out here translate fairly well to the battlefield, barring complications."

Loki glanced up, trying to read his mood; Tyr noticed that he did that a lot. "I tried to explain to him that there was more than one way to play the game," he said, "but he insisted on doing the same thing over and over, and then grew angry when I beat him."

"Hm. Well, if he refuses to learn a lesson that is staring him in the face, that is hardly your fault. Ha. Finally." Tyr allowed himself a moment of satisfaction as he captured one of the boy's pieces. "You're a slippery one."

"You… you say that as if it's a compliment."

"It is," Tyr shrugged. "What's the first rule of battle?"

Loki frowned a little. "I am afraid I do not recall that lesson, sir."

That made Tyr frown in his turn. "Have you not yet begun advanced training? You're of the proper age."

The boy looked down, subdued. "No, sir. Master Kaetilfast—" He cut himself off just as his tone turned angry. Still trying to cover, Tyr realized; not wanting to risk offending his new foster father. "Master Kaetilfast claims I am still not ready to move to the next cohort."

Tyr raised his eyebrow, but said nothing. Kaetilfast might be giving an honest assessment, but Tyr doubted it; he had been demoted to the training grounds back when Loki was still small, after misconduct on the battlefield, and his attitude since had ensured that he would never be promoted again. He was exceptionally bitter toward anyone who held a rank or position that he thought they hadn't earned, and would likely have despised Loki on principle. With Odin making it clear over the years that Loki was not a favored son, it was entirely likely that Kaetilfast had felt free to act on that bitterness whenever he chose.

"Mm. Well, I'm collecting records and assessments from all your other tutors; it will be no great hardship to test your degree of weapons training as well."

"Yes, sir." Loki, predictably, did not sound thrilled about this. Tyr decided not to let him dwell on it.

"Regardless," he said, "in the advanced training, one of the first things I teach is the so-called rules of battle. Rule One: don't die." Loki hid a smile, and Tyr indicated the board with a gesture. "So yes, as far as I'm concerned, slippery is a compliment. If your opponents can't hit you, they can't kill you. If they can't kill you, there's still a chance for victory in the future, no matter how grim things are at present."

"Yes, sir." Loki studied the board for a second, then moved a piece. "May I ask you something else?"

"Of course."

"I was wondering," he began—then cut off with a start as, outside the study, the door to Loki's chambers crashed open.

"Loki—brother?!" Thor. Of course. Tyr stood and glanced at Loki, who had also leapt to his feet; his eyes darted back and forth between Tyr and the closed door.

"Remember what we talked about?" Tyr asked quietly, and Loki nodded. "Off with you, then."

Thor burst into the study not a second after Loki had disappeared, and stopped short. Tyr was standing not a foot away from him with his arms cross and feet spread, staring him down like one of the statues outside the Halls of Judgment. "And what do you think you are doing here, boy?" he asked.

Thrown off-balance by the surprise, Thor could only sputter for a second. "I—my brother—I came to see him."

"Why?"

"What—" His surprise was quickly giving way to belligerent anger; no surprise there. "What do you mean, why, he is my brother!"

"Your brother, whom you held down for others to torture, not two hours past?" Thor still glared at him angrily, but he wasn't the first defensive adolescent Tyr had faced down. "I'll ask again: why are you here? Why did you come? What gives you the right to be here?" He leaned in close, his voice dropping into that flat register he'd used in Odin's court, and watched as Thor finally blanched. "What reason could you possibly give that would convince me to allow you anywhere near him?"

"He's… he's my brother," Thor said again, more quietly. A little desperately. Tyr only raised an eyebrow and waited. "I need to see him. I need to—" His hands twitched, and Tyr guessed that if he hadn't been raised at court he'd be pulling at his own hair by now. "I need to say I'm sorry. I need to know he's all right."

"Why?" Thor just looked at him in confusion. "I hear you talking a lot about what _you_ need. Do you need to check on him for his sake, or just to assuage your own guilt? Do you want to apologize because you admit you did wrong, or because you want him to forgive you so you will feel better? Are you only here to get what _you_ need, or have you actually stopped to consider what _he_ might need instead?"

"I-I don't…"

"You don't even grasp the difference, do you?" said Tyr, shaking his head. "Has it even occurred to you that you did something wrong, that you failed your brother tremendously?"

"I was trying to help him—"

Tyr grabbed the boy's shirtfront and shoved him into the wall. "They _sewed his mouth shut_ like a pair of tailors making a cheap purse, and you held him still while they did it!" He pulled him forward only to slam him back again, not enough to hurt him but enough to make the fool _think_. "Did you miss the part where he was writhing to get away from you, or the way he screamed when they first pierced his lip with a damned leatherworker's awl? Did you miss the way he _begged_ you to help him?"

"No!" Thor struck Tyr's arms away, and Tyr let him. "I didn't miss any of it! His cries broke my heart—"

"But not enough to stop you."

"It killed me to do it, but I had to! Father said—"

Tyr held his hand up, and Thor stopped dead. "Your father. The man who was willing to have his own son tortured for public entertainment, and to use his rank and title to pass it off as some sort of twisted justice. Yes. Tell me what that man, _your father_ , said to justify what he allowed to happen to Loki."

Thor swallowed hard. "H-he said that Loki had brought this upon himself. That for his crimes against the dwarfs he needed to be punished. If… he said if we allowed Loki to go unpunished it would offend the dwarfs and there might be war."

Tyr narrowed his eyes. "He said that because the dwarfs supply Asgard with many of her weapons and most of her armor. The famed might of the Aesir is owed in large part to dwarfish craftsmanship. Odin was not concerned over war, he just did not wish to risk offending a supplier of valuable goods." And even that was likely a pretext, if Tyr did not miss his guess.

Thor said nothing; as upset as he seemed, it looked like he might actually be listening for once instead of marshaling a retort.

"Loki's crimes, if they even happened, should have been brought before a trial to determine. Instead Odin allowed the dwarfs to announce Loki's supposed misdeeds, declare his guilt, and render a punishment—with no intervention from the All-Father whatsoever. Is that how the king of Asgard conducts business in his own court—allowing foreigners to dictate the entire proceedings while he sits back and watches?"

"No… no, weaponsmaster," said Thor.

"No. You are correct. And did Odin pause to listen to Loki's defense? No, he did not; in fact, he did not even grant Loki a moment to come up with one. Two dwarfs come stomping into the throne room and proclaim Loki's guilt, and the All-Father simply takes them at their word. And with no sort of a defense, he allows them to enact punishment, and conveniently for him, he permits all this after Loki has already presented his gifts to the king." Tyr stepped out of Thor's personal space, and folded his arms again. "That is not justice. That is not how a lawful king responds to a supposed crime. I am embarrassed for your sake, Thor, that you would simply accept Odin's word without question when it deviates so severely from everything you, as a _prince_ , have ever been taught about the law. I understand he is your father, but he is not perfect and you are not a child. It is high time you learned that."

Thor looked down, his face screwed up as he tried not to cry. Tyr felt a little sympathy for him; he had come here frantic to see his brother and had gotten stuck with a lecture instead. Still, this was a perfectly private setting; it wasn't as if he were being humiliated in front of his cohort on the training grounds.

And then Thor blindsided him by saying, "You're right, sir. I do know that. I know it now, and I wish I didn't."

Tyr did his best to keep the surprise off his face, but the boy wasn't even looking. What new twist was the prince about to reveal?

"He—Father said…" Thor's breath hitched, and Tyr waited him out while he composed himself. He looked up finally, and met Tyr's eye, determined. "Loki needs to hear this too. I didn't want to tell him, but… but if Father isn't his father anymore, then… then he deserves to know."

There was a shuffling step behind Tyr, and he and Thor looked up to see Loki standing in the doorway. Tyr, despite the gravity of the moment, had to hide his amusement: Loki had not only tied a silk sash over his mouth and nose as Tyr had suggested, he'd taken a moment to change back into his bloodstained shirt from court, and mussed his hair. Now he was drooping in the doorway to his bedroom so pathetically that he looked positively bedraggled. Clearly, he had decided to inflict a little guilt on his brother, along with the attempt at a believable ruse.

It was working, too; Thor's face crumpled, and he rushed to take Loki by the shoulders. Loki flinched back, and Tyr couldn't quite tell if that was an act or not. Unable to touch him, Thor's hands groped the air helplessly.

"I'm sorry," he was saying, over and over. "Brother, I am so sorry. I didn't want to do it, I swear, I would never, _never_ wish to harm you. I swear it! I am so sorry…"

Loki reached up and put a hand over his brother's mouth, not roughly but enough to get him to stop.

"You shouldn't be on your feet, you should be—here, sit—" Thor grabbed Loki again, guided him to the tafl board, and sat him down; Tyr was concerned for a moment, but the elder prince did not seem to notice that there were two chairs at the tafl board and a game in progress, nor to realize what that implied.

Thor dropped to his knees at Loki's side, making the boy frown. "Are you in pain, can I—of course you're in pain, I'm being an idiot… I—is there anything I can do?"

"You've already done it," said Tyr, and Thor cringed. "You said there was something my foster son needed to know?" Ancestors help him, he was going to sound as territorial as a dog by the time the day was out.

Thor seemed to deflate at that, dropping his hands and gaze into his lap. "All this was planned," he said finally. The way he swallowed, Tyr almost thought he was going to be sick.

"Explain. Now."

Thor took a shaky breath, but didn't look up. "This morning, Loki brought the gifts from Nidavellir into court, and then the dwarfs came in and accused him, and… you know what happened next. But the dwarfs didn't arrive in Asgard after Loki. They got here first."

Tyr glanced over at Loki to find him frozen in his seat, barely breathing.

"I was… I was with Father in his study yesterday evening, talking about the contest of arms that is coming up at the end of the month. The two dwarfs were presented, saying that they had urgent business, and Father sent me away." He looked up then, gripping the arm of Loki's chair. "But I knew you had just gone to Nidavellir after that mess with Sif's hair, and I worried that you might have gotten into trouble. So I went out, but I didn't leave. I left the door open a crack, and I listened."

"Go on," said Tyr.

"The dwarfs said—they said you had cheated them, or stolen from them; they both kept talking over each other so I don't know which it was supposed to be. But they said that you had bargained for them to craft wonders and then refused to pay them, and they would have your head as they were promised. Father said he would not allow them to kill a son of Odin, and one of them said, 'Who said anything about killing? Nonetheless his head is ours.' And Father—and Father agreed."

Loki gasped sharply; when Tyr glanced over he saw that the boy was clutching the arms of his chair with white knuckles, and tears were spilling over his cheeks. His face above the tied sash was pale.

"I couldn't stand to hear any more of it," said Thor, "so I went back in and… well, you would probably say that I let my temper rule me, brother. I shouted at the dwarfs, how dare they think to harm my brother, a-and I shouted at Father too, how dare he go along with this, what could he possibly mean by it—I don't even remember everything I said, I was so furious. And then..." Thor swallowed again, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. "And then Father struck me."

Loki actually jolted in shock at that.

"He what?" Tyr dropped into the other seat at the table and leaned forward. "Has he ever done this before?"

Thor shook his head. "No, sir. He… well, sometimes when I'm being an idiot he will cuff me to catch my attention, you know, just a smack on the back of the head or," he mimed a punch, "a blow to the shoulder. He's never—I mean, he's struck Loki before but never me, and I… I never stopped to realize how wrong that was until he hit me too." He looked back up at Loki, who loosened his grip long enough to rest his hand on Thor's forearm.

"Was he trying to get your attention this time, do you think, or was he trying to punish?" asked Tyr.

Thor shook his head again, more slowly this time; his entire posture was one of misery. "I could not say, weaponsmaster. I thought I knew my father before this, and now I don't think I know anything." He heaved a sigh, and dropped his forehead to rest on the back of Loki's hand. "I'm so sorry, brother. H-he always made it sound like it was just… _reasonable_ , before."

"All right," Tyr said calmly, "let us set that aside. What happened next, after he struck you?"

"Father… he convinced me that I had misheard. Maybe I just—Loki, you've told me before, you can lie to someone by telling them what they wish to hear—maybe I just heard what made sense, because I could not fathom it otherwise. He, he explained that you had committed a grave crime; he said that there were consequences that must be faced. He said that if you were not punished there might be war." Thor glanced over at Tyr at the reminder. "And then he… he made it sound so _reasonable_ … like he regretted the necessity—I think he even said that—but you brought these things upon yourself. That if you hadn't cut off Sif's hair in the first place, none of this would have happened. That you just never seemed to listen unless the punishment was severe, that perhaps it was just in your nature to be unruly and defiant. That he was at his wit's end with what to do with you and there was simply nothing for it. It was just… it was all so reasonable." Thor sat back on his haunches and dragged both hands through his hair. "It all made _sense_ , when he said it."

"And that was why you chose to go along with Loki's punishment?" asked Tyr.

"No! No, I still wanted nothing to do with it, but Father…" Thor sighed again, a broken sound. "To punish me, Father said that he would give me a choice. Either I would hold you still so that the dwarfs could, could do _that_ … or he would make me take up the awl and the needle, and do it to you myself."

Loki shuddered; behind the scarf, Tyr could see the way he opened his mouth to speak, only stopping himself at the last second. He brought one hand up to cover his mouth, and pressed down.

Tyr narrowed his eyes in thought. "Thor, for what transgression was the All-Father punishing you?" he asked slowly.

The other boy was silent for a moment, still hunched over beside Loki's chair. "I do not really know, now," he said quietly. "He _said_ it was for eavesdropping and involving myself in matters that were not my business, but now…" He slid back from his knees to sit cross-legged on the floor, and brought both hands to hold his head, just as Loki had done earlier. "Now I wonder if he was not punishing me for daring to stand up for my brother. Or for defying him—or maybe only defying him in front of witnesses. I know not."

Tyr leaned back in his seat, nodding slowly. That tracked; Loki had, for one reason or another in the All-Father's mind, become the family scapegoat, with Thor as the favored son. Anything Thor did that might disrupt that pecking order would need to be ruthlessly put down before it could grow legs and overthrow Odin's position of omnipotent, unassailable authority. Bringing Thor in on Loki's torment would be a perfect tactic for Odin: not only would Thor be _extremely_ discouraged from ever standing up for Loki again, Odin could cement in Thor's mind that Loki somehow deserved whatever was done to him, and cement in Loki's mind that he could expect no allies to come to his aid, not even his own brother.

Tyr was beginning to put together the pieces of a complicated mosaic, and the picture that was taking shape did not please him one bit.

"What happened next?" he asked, careful to keep the rising anger out of his voice.

Thor kept his head down, and his voice was a little muffled as he answered. "I could not sleep after that. I stayed awake all night trying to figure out the best course of action. I finally decided that—that my hands would shake too much, that I would be too upset to… to…" His breath heaved once, in and out. "If I held the needle myself, I would make it worse, and, and Loki would never forgive me. If I held him still… I told myself I was _helping_." He sobbed once, and sniffed, and continued. "If I held him still, th-they would still hurt him, but they knew how to use their tools as I did not, and I could keep him from moving and making it worse, and it would be over more quickly, and— _I thought I was helping."_

Thor folded in on himself, weeping, and Loki immediately slid out of his chair to wrap his arms around his older brother.

"You shouldn't even be comforting me," moaned Thor, "I don't deserve it; I did this to you, I let this happen, and I am _so sorry_ , Loki…" He wrapped his head in his arms and keened for a few seconds, while his little brother held him tightly and silent tears slipped down his cheeks, too. "You didn't return from Nidavellir until almost dawn, and I was too much of a coward to come and find you. I could have _warned_ you, but I couldn't bear to show my face, I was too ashamed of myself, and you had to suffer for it… I am so sorry…"

Loki closed his eyes for a second, visibly distraught; then he caught Tyr's eye and reached for the sash tied over his face. He glanced down at Thor quickly and back up, as if asking permission, and Tyr nodded. Thor was sometimes a gullible fool, but he had a good heart, and he did not deserve to be included in their planned deception. Tyr and Loki would simply have to find a way to work around his complete inability to keep a secret for any length of time.

So Tyr nodded, and Loki tugged the sash off, and said, "It's all right, brother. I forgive you. It's all right."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I had intended for Thor to show up and Tyr to tear him a new one for his behavior, even though I knew he had non-malicious motives for what he did. And I know from the comments a lot of people were prepared to hate on Thor. But then he confessed to a little bit more than I expected, and apparently now he's going to be a co-conspirator, maybe? Here is my expressive don't-ask-me shrug: *SHRUG*
> 
> Is it too soon to solicit fanart for this fic? I've never had fanart and I'd love to display some here, or on my tumblr. Or is soliciting fanart considered rude? I don't know how this works.


	6. Packing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thor tries to be a better brother, to mixed success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience as real life did its thing. The new school year came around, and I don't always adjust well to disruptions in my routine, so it took a bit to get my groove back. Hopefully this chapter makes up somewhat for the delay.

_So Tyr nodded, and Loki tugged the sash off, and said, "It's all right, brother. I forgive you. It's all right."_

Thor sobbed for a few more seconds while Loki held him, until it sank in all at once that his brother had actually spoken, and what that meant. He jerked away from Loki, still sniffling, red-rimmed eyes wide.

"You can speak!" Really, they would have to work on the lad's observational skills if he were ever to inherit the throne of Asgard. Thor's eyes narrowed and he began to scowl. "You tricked me!"

Before he could wind himself up, Tyr leaned over in his seat and smacked him lightly on the back of the head. "If you're really going to accuse him of fakery after you saw what the dwarfs did with your own two eyes, I will thrash you for stupidity."

"But he got the stitches out! You said it was enchanted thread, that the dwarfs would—"

"Are you actually _angry_ that your brother is no longer mutilated, wretched boy?"

That brought Thor up short. "No. _No,_ sir, I'm not, I just—" he turned to Loki, "why would you let me believe you were still suffering when you weren't?"

" _Think_ , boy," Tyr answered, before Loki could speak. "You _helped_ the dwarfs to hurt him. Neither of us knew any of the things you just told us. We had no idea if you were to be _trusted_."

Thor blinked rapidly, taking that in. "And now?" he asked, searching Loki's face.

"I don't know," said Loki quietly. Thor, of course, looked upset. "If someone had done this to you, would you trust them so easily afterward? And we do not wish for the dwarfs to find out that I am already freed from their enchantment, and _you_ have never been able to keep a secret for any length of time. Honestly," he added bitterly, "I'm surprised you lasted this long keeping Fa—the All-Father's secrets from last night."

Thor took a deep breath; it was a little shaky as he exhaled, but he nodded. "I fear that if I sit down to think, now that General Tyr has brought the topic to mind, I will recall many other ways that Father has hurt you, and I… I fear that I will see all the ways in which I have allowed it." He scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I do not wish to _hurt_ you anymore, brother. Tell me what I may do, if not to regain your trust or… or your forgiveness…" The boy paused to compose himself. "Even if I cannot have that, tell me what I may do to help you. From here forward."

"There is…" Loki's hands were fidgeting, rubbing and pinching together, as he tried to find words. "Most of what I would say to you does not really apply anymore. I could ask you to try to take my side sometimes. Or, or at least _ask_ , ask yourself if no one else, whether I am really deserving of what Father is trying to do to me. You never—"

Loki looked away, his breath shaky, and Tyr spoke up. "Loki needs allies," he said, his voice low but intense. "Odin has worked hard to turn the people of Asgard away from your brother, even if he has not actively encouraged them to raise their hands against him. Loki needs people who will stand up for him, who will defy the accepted stories and rumors, who will not leap to accuse him at the first sign of wrongdoing. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Thor sadly. "I think so, sir."

"Good," said Tyr. "You wish to know what you may do for Loki. In the long term, you can be his ally, do the things I have just described. You can also refute the slander you hear against your brother's character. Odin may be king, but he does not deserve to get away with all he has done against Loki just because of his rank. You are not responsible for Odin's wrongdoing; you need not feel guilt that you could not stop him. He is more powerful than you, and outright defiance may have cost you dearly. However, if you cannot be Loki's ally, you hardly deserve to call yourself his brother."

Thor pulled himself up straighter. "I understand, sir."

"I am pleased to hear it. Now, all of that is long term. In the more immediate term, we have plans to implement while we prepare for the Thing, and it is important to us that the dwarfs not discover that Loki is already recovering from what they did to him. The best way to keep you, Thor, from spilling this secret would be to keep you with us for the remainder of the day, until it is time for the Thing." Tyr ran a hand over his beard, pondering. "I suppose if we had to, with Hoenir gone, we could use you as another courier to run messages, but I think people will actually be _more_ likely to hound you for gossip, today of all days. It is best to keep you to ourselves, I think."

"I could help you to pack your things," said Thor. The look on his face was so earnest. "Brother, please do not mistake my meaning. I do not wish for you to leave the palace, but since it must be so, I would still help you, if you would have me."

Loki looked down at Thor, still on his knees beside Loki's chair. The boy started to bite his lip in thought, then flinched as he put pressure on still-tender wounds; Thor flinched with him.

Tyr took a moment to assess his foster son. Loki was holding together surprisingly well, all told, but he was still in a fragile state after his trauma, even if he himself didn't realize it. Giving him quiet, with simple tasks and reassuring conversation, would be the best thing Tyr could do for the boy while he gathered himself back together. Preferably, he would do that with only one person around him, two at most, who could stay calm and set a boundary on Loki's world, establish a sanctuary in which he could know himself to be safe. Even if they were not talking about what had happened, some part of the boy's mind would be processing it, and he needed to be given space in which to do that. Might need that even more than most, given the way Tyr knew he was always thinking.

Right now Loki had Tyr to establish and maintain that boundary, leaving Loki to dictate what happened inside it. The question was whether or not adding Thor to that configuration would be beneficial for Loki, or disastrous. The older boy was so desperate to atone for what he had done that he might be liable to smother Loki, push at his boundaries, overwhelm him with too much of his own _need_ and forget to take his brother's health into account.

There was nothing for it, however, and fortunately, Tyr had literal millennia of experience managing people and getting them to work together, especially young, stupid hotheads who fancied themselves heroic warriors. "Thor, your willingness to aid your brother is admirable, but he may wish to be left alone. His head may know you are his brother, but it is not so easy for his heart to forget what you did to him." Thor opened his mouth to protest, and Tyr held his hand up to stop him. "This is not an argument. If you stay here, you will do as Loki tells you, or as I tell you. If you choose not to stay here, I will find somewhere else where you may be of best use. But for the remainder of this day until the Thing, you are not to go anywhere or speak to anyone without our permission, and you are not to impose upon your brother if he does not wish for your company."

Thor nodded. "I can do that, sir."

Well, they would see if that was true. "Loki? Is this agreeable to you?"

"I… I suppose so." The boy smiled suddenly, albeit tentatively, as he looked Thor over. "Being able to order you around could be entertaining."

"Right, then," said Tyr. "Loki, change your clothing, and show your brother what he is to pack in your bedroom."

* * *

The three of them worked more or less comfortably together; the looks Loki kept giving Tyr were somewhat amusing, as Tyr kept asking for orders while Loki did everything in his power to avoid giving them. Only somewhat amusing, though: Tyr suspected the boy was trying not to be disrespectful, which was fine, except that it also felt as though Loki were afraid he was being tricked into offending Tyr so that Tyr would have an excuse to punish him. For his part, the general kept his manner as blandly inoffensive as he knew how, centuries of political hobnobbing giving him an air of polite attentiveness and absolutely nothing else.

Meanwhile, Thor was an eager puppy, following Loki from room to room and trying his damnedest to help. The two of them bickered and teased as brothers often did, but Tyr could hear the edge of unhappiness behind it, neither one quite sure how to bring up their fears that their relationship would change forever. Tyr kept an ear out, waiting for Thor to overstep his bounds or for Loki's reaction to the day's trauma to finally surface.

"Why are you putting _these_ things into the chest, brother?" Tyr overheard, near to lunchtime.

"You know why," Loki answered, and Tyr could almost hear him rolling his eyes in exasperation. "And don't touch that, it's fragile."

"But they're your… your _magic_ things. Surely you won't need them."

There was a pause, and Tyr stepped closer to the door. Where most suites of this layout had a small cooking area off the study, for those times when residents did not wish to disturb palace servants or preferred to eat in private, Loki had used the space as a workshop and studio for his seidr practice. Herbs and new candles hung in bundles from the ceiling, the cabinets were full of exotic-looking pottery and jars with mysterious contents, the spice rack was sitting on the floor beneath a mirror of black glass, and books were stacked neatly on the shelves meant for plates and bowls. Both the boys had their backs to the door, but Tyr could still read tension in the set of Loki's shoulders and the curl of one fist, out of Thor's sight.

"Why wouldn't I need them?" Loki asked tersely. "How else am I to continue my studies?"

"But you won't have to rely on tricks anymore," said Thor. He grinned, a little too wide, and clapped Loki's shoulder a little too desperately. "General Tyr is a mighty warrior, surely _he_ can train you to defend yourself! And in the meantime you will have no better protector—"

" _General Tyr_ has already said I am to have a personal tutor in the arts of seidr," Loki shot back. He shook off Thor's hand and glared. "And thank you ever so much for your opinion of my own _helplessness_ and incompetence as a warrior, truly."

"I do not mean that you are weak!" Thor hastened to reassure him. "It is only that you are—"

"That I am what? What am I, Thor? Useless in the training ring? A soft-handed, lisping fool? A woman in disguise, revealed by the way I rely on my _tricks_? A coward? An _argr_?"

"What— _no!_ " To his credit, Thor sounded horrified by the thought. "Loki, come, you are ex—"

"Do not _dare_ tell me I am exaggerating," said Loki with a shove, "while you stand there and as good as _announce_ that you think I am wasting my time with a skill that takes more discipline than you've ever shown in your life, Thor. General Tyr will be my _protector?_ Am I some damsel, now, who needs a big, strong man to keep me _safe?_ "

"That's not what I—"

"Yes it was," said Loki. "It's what you meant, it's what you've always meant. You sound just like Fa—just like the All-Father. So much for your pledge to take my side, once in a while."

That shut Thor up.

"And all those other insults? I'm not exaggerating, I'm repeating what I've been told, dozens of times, either by him or by those warriors you look up to _so much_. Magic is for _women_. No _real_ man would waste a moment of his days studying such things. What _defect_ of strength or character must I have, to be drawn to such unnatural pursuits? Why can't I be more like _Thor?_ "

Loki turned away, shoving a few more bottles into a sack on the table; Thor just watched him, stricken, for the space of a few breaths.

"Loki… Loki, I—Father has not been fair to you," he said finally, "but he has not been fair to me either, if he has used my example as some sort of bludgeon to make you be someone you are not." Loki paused, and tilted his head to listen. "But… but even so…"

"General Tyr is going to arrange for a _tutor_ for me," repeated Loki. "He promised. Tomorrow at the latest, he said. _He_ said only a handful of old-fashioned, stubborn fools still hold to the notion that what is natural for a woman is unnatural for a man, and vice versa. And so what if it is? That hateful shrew, Sif, can fight, and you all praise her perseverance and courage in the face of opposition, is that not so? Well, _I_ can study seidr, and I'll be damned if I listen to you or anyone else try to mock me for it, ever again."

"…And what if they challenge you to holmgang?" Thor asked quietly.

"Then I will kill them." Loki shrugged his shoulders, but the motion was stiff, forced; Tyr doubted he'd even killed anything larger than a rabbit on hunting trips, much less taken a man's life.

"How?" Thor threw his hands into the air, his voice frantic. "Seidr isn't allowed in the dueling ring!"

"Then I shall kill them _outside_ it," Loki rounded on Thor, teeth bared.

"And he would be right to do so, though it will never come to that," Tyr cut in, startling them both, before a visibly shocked Thor could respond. "It is cruel sport indeed to demand a man fight to the death, after you've taken his only weapons from him. Would you challenge a man who was blind, or who had no hands? Or an able-bodied man, but demand that he fight weaponless and wearing only a loincloth while you bore your full armor and a good sharp sword? Any man who calls another to duel, knowing his foe will be forced to give up his greatest assets, is nothing more than an honorless thug, and does not deserve the respect that opponents grant one another inside the ring. Deliberate cruelty of that sort does not deserve any sort of deference, only disdain."

Both boys were staring at him, Thor looking thoroughly unnerved, Loki looking defensive and almost ashamed.

"I would not be helpless without my seidr, in any case," muttered Loki. "I can fight. Not as well as a seasoned veteran, perhaps, but I do train alongside the rest of my cohort."

"Indeed you do," said Tyr, "but even so it will never come to that, as I said. You are too young to enter the ring. Any who would dare to insult your prowess at seidr would be insulting me by extension, and I would be the one to challenge them—at least, until you come of age. And I assure you, such insult would be the last error in judgment they ever made."

" _I know_ I am not old enough to challenge for holmgang," said Loki, sullenly enough that Tyr could almost hear the underlying "that never seems to matter" without needing to read Loki's expression. The boy mastered himself again, with a deep breath and a hand smoothed down the front of his tunic. "I mean… I know that, _sir_."

"Mm. Do not be so eager to reach that milestone," Tyr advised. "We are a warrior society, true, but even so it is a gruesome initiation. Taking a man's life leaves scars on your own soul. Warriors will try to reassure you and say that you will get used to it, but the truth is that you have lost something irrevocably the day you deal death for the first time. You will never get it back, and you can only learn how to grow around the hollow place inside you where it used to be… and not everyone makes that adjustment," he added solemnly.

The two brothers glanced sidelong at one another, their earlier quarrel all but forgotten. Tyr quirked an eyebrow at them both. "But let us set that aside for now," he said. "Thor—you've provoked your brother enough. Thoughtlessly and without malice intended, I know, yet you still have wronged him with your assumptions. For now, it would be best if you permitted Loki to pack this room unaided, and returned to his bedchamber. I believe the wardrobe was still not done."

"Yes, weaponsmaster." Thor ducked his head for a second, then looked up at his brother. "I am sorry, Loki. I didn't mean to… to disparage you. I only—"

"I know, Thor," said Loki tiredly. "Just—I know."

Tyr waited until the older boy had disappeared through the doorway before speaking. "I get the impression he does that a lot," he suggested. "Means well, tramples over your feelings and disregards what is important to you, and then _if_ you should call him on his behavior, he insists that that is not what truly happened?"

Loki dragged a hand through his hair. "Is it wrong that I am looking forward to being away from him, just a little?" he asked. "I mean… he is my brother, and I love him, how can I feel such despicable things, and yet…" He clutched at his elbows, his voice small. "And yet I do."

"Heh." Tyr leaned in the doorway, letting Loki see the half-smile on his face. "Nothing despicable about it," he said. "You are both struggling to be your own person, and you have been together so long that you cannot help but see yourselves in terms of your relationship to one another. If one of you does something the other does not like, it is practically a blow to that one's own identity. Or it seems like it is, when in reality the two of you are separate individuals. Your studying magic does not make him less of a warrior. His disparaging seidr does not make you less of a sorcerer. Of course you value his opinion, but at the same time you are struggling to value yours as well, and to balance between selfishness and, hm, loss of boundaries."

The chime sounded at the outer door of Loki's chambers. "Stay here," Tyr said, pushing himself off the door frame. "It is probably only the noon meal, but—"

"But we don't want them to see. Yes, sir. I understand."

Tyr nodded. "Think on this, while you pack," he said. "There is nothing despicable about feeling frustrated when another man tries to dump his baggage onto your bunk. Wanting your own space is perfectly reasonable, especially given your age, and frankly I'd be more concerned about your mental health if you didn't want to take time away from an overbearing lout, even if he does mean well."

It was Loki's turn to huff in amusement, as Tyr went to answer the door.


	7. Noon Meal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn a bit of Tyr's background, and Loki's trauma surfaces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ordinarily I alternate posting chapters between this story and Fate's Guardian, to make sure that neither story gets neglected, but I decided to go ahead and post early to this one because it wouldn't leave me alone.
> 
> Also, for your mental viewing pleasure, SpaceAnJL informed me that she sees Tyr being played by Liam Neeson - less _Star Wars_ and more _Kingdom of Heaven_ \- and NOW I CANNOT UNSEE IT. Perfect imaginary casting is perfect. I had always been imagining someone bulkier up till now, but now I even hear Tyr's lines in Neeson's voice, so yeah. That's over and done with!

Tyr refused to allow the servants to linger, taking their trays and setting up the meal himself before shooing them out the door. Once they were gone, Thor and Loki came out to the receiving room and sat.

"There may not be enough for you to eat here, Thor," warned Tyr. "We weren't expecting you to join us."

Thor lifted the covers off each tray and found a crock of broth, unseasoned poultry, and the light wafers that were most often given to sick patients in the healing wing of the palace. "I am not sure there is enough here for the two of you, either," he said, wrinkling his nose.

"Swallowing too much blood can give a person a queasy stomach," said Tyr mildly. "I didn't think my foster son would appreciate getting his stitches removed, only to vomit all over the hearth."

Guilt mixed with a little queasiness of his own crossed Thor's expression, and Tyr hid his amusement. He wasn't out to be deliberately cruel to the lad, but Loki's brother was at that age where most young men didn't learn anything unless it was bludgeoned into their heads repeatedly. Hopefully, after today Thor would not only remember that he'd done wrong, and that Odin was not to be trusted with Loki's safety, but would also use that knowledge to prevent a repeat of anything like today's events.

"I'll tell you what," he offered. "We're nearly ready for the porters to come and collect all this, and then make the procession to my home. You," he reached for his belt and pulled out a packet of papers, "can deliver these to the barracks, and either eat there or with the stable hands. If you eat at the barracks, come back with the porters once you're finished. If you go to the stable, do not return; instead, saddle your horse and Loki's, as well as mine, and have the grooms hitch two or three teams to the floating wagons. Hm. Loki, do you have more than one horse of your own?"

"Uh—no sir," he answered quickly. Tyr glanced at him, puzzled to see him glance nervously up and away. "Just the gelding. Well, and a pack horse, I suppose."

"Very well. Nothing of yours will remain in the palace after today unless you wish it; that includes the horses. My own stable can accommodate your two mounts easily." He turned back to the elder prince as an idea struck him. "Speak to no one outside your appointed task," he said. "Not only will it keep you from revealing any gossip, you are known as a gregarious lad. Seeing you refusing to speak to anyone will drive home the import and severity of Odin's actions on this day."

Thor nearly saluted as he took the packet from Tyr. "I understand, weaponsmaster."

The general tipped his head toward the door. "Off with you, then."

* * *

"Thank you," Loki sighed, once the door was shut behind his brother. "It isn't that I do not want his company, but…"

"Your brother is rather like a… cheerful bilgesnipe," observed Tyr. "Prone to trampling everything in his path, despite being in a good mood."

Loki chuckled, caught off guard; the sound seemed to surprise him as much as Tyr's jest. "He means well, I know he does, but he can be a bit overwhelming, on occasion."

"And you have already had enough to overwhelm you for one day, I should think," Tyr agreed. "Come. Eat."

"There really isn't much," Loki said dubiously. "Thor was right about that."

Tyr shrugged. "I have eaten less, and worse. Besides, this is meant for you. Eat as much as you like, and I will finish what you do not."

"You are talking of meals when on campaign?" his foster-son asked, pulling some chicken onto his plate.

"Aye." Tyr sat opposite the boy and poured mugs for them both from the pot of steaming tisane. "Food shortages, bad weather making it impossible to cook over a fire, spoiled rations… meals interrupted by attack… They say you can tell a soldier by his ability to sleep anywhere, at any time, but I've also found that we veterans can be spotted by the way we will eat whatever is put in front of us, and be thankful if it is fresh and hot."

"I can only imagine," Loki replied, a little half-smile on his face. He stabbed a slice of chicken with the tip of his knife, then froze for the barest instant before pulling the meat off the blade and eating it with his fingers instead. If his expression hadn't flickered, Tyr might not have noticed the gesture. "And when you are not on campaign?"

"The manor has orchards and fields attached, and a tributary of the Hvítáfljót flows through to give us a good supply of fish. We keep sheep and goats on the hills, and several of our gardeners learned their craft from the Vanir, so we have quite a few edible crops that don't grow anywhere else on Asgard."

"Oh!" Loki looked up from his meal. "Are your groves where the palace gets that exotic citrus fruit?" The boy was barely eating, but Tyr hadn't expected him to be able to stomach much. If he wanted distraction to help him get his meal down, Tyr didn't mind providing it.

"Indeed," he said, "and if you are asking for my favorite meal, well. You might not expect such a fruit to go well as a seasoning in meat, but my cooks take fresh-caught salmon and bake it, then top it with a sauce made with lemon and dill and serve it over a mix of fresh, crisp greens and chopped raw vegetables. Tastes like a blessing from Yggdrasil itself. Then they make a drink from sweetened lemon juice and mint, diluted in spring water, which I generally reserve for a sort of dessert after the meal is over. A bit sour for an upset stomach, but on a hot day it's better than chilled mead."

"Your cooks," mused Loki. "I was wondering earlier, before Thor came: is there a Lady Tyrswife?"

"Ah. No," answered Tyr, leaning back in his seat. "There was, once. Zisa." Even after all these centuries, he could still feel himself smile like a love-struck fool. "She dwells in Valhalla, now."

"Oh." Loki's reply was subdued, as he poked at the chicken on his plate. "I, um. I am sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, but there is no need to apologize. She passed on long ago, well before you were born. An age ago, really: were it not for her portrait in my study, I am sure I would have forgotten what she looked like by now, much though I would have regretted the fading of that memory." It had been over two thousand years, now, and Tyr counted himself blessed that he could still recall the sound of her laughter, even though he had long since lost the sound of her spoken voice. He scrubbed one hand under his chin thoughtfully. "In a way, I would never have become chief general, were it not for her."

"How so?" Loki had set the chicken aside and was nibbling cautiously at the wafers.

"It was the pain of her loss that sent me back into the army," Tyr said simply. "I had already completed my mandatory term decades prior, but after she was gone…" He sighed. "At the time I didn't believe that there was anything left to me, any future life that I would want to live without her in it. And perhaps you can appreciate how many of us in Asgard have a tendency to transmute our less-comfortable emotions into a desire to break and smash and, I admit it, spatter the blood of enemies until we might feel better."

"I'd noticed," said Loki dryly, then caught himself. "Sir."

Tyr only chuckled, watching as the boy relaxed. "Well, I was grief-stricken, and wanting very much to go hit things, and the best place to do that without landing in a dungeon was the army. Since I'd already completed my term, when I returned I was automatically considered for officer training. Did well enough at it, rose through the ranks; earned a few rings and brooches, now and again. Eventually made general, then finally chief general, a few decades after the war with Jotunheim." He shrugged. "I never would have gone back into the ranks of the warriors if I had not lost my Zisa, but I cannot say I regret the choice to do so."

"I see." The boy nibbled at his wafer, then caught Tyr's eye warily. "If—if I may ask… you said she had passed to Valhalla?"

Hm. Of course, the boy would want that for a distraction as well. Fortunately time had dulled the pain of the telling of it. "We had been married about three hundred years," he said, "three hundred thirty-seven—and were traveling together to visit her family. We'd made a holiday of it, taken the scenic roads along the Hvítáfljót rather than the more direct route. By the will of the Norns, we were a little ways outside a small village, near sunset, when we saw smoke ahead. We picked up our pace, naturally, and came upon a farm on the outskirts where the barn had caught fire." He grimaced, shaking his head. "Tragic thing; the older children from four or five families were gathered and milking the goats all together, and sharing the work of keeping an eye on the youngers, and one of them kicked over a lantern somewhere. And of course the flames ended up between the children and the doors, and the doors themselves were barred to keep the goats and a couple of toddlers from wandering off."

"Oh, no."

"Mm. There were only four men on the farm, the rest still out in the fields, and the women not yet home from the day's market, save for one mother; two of the men were already throwing water on the blaze from the outside, of course, but the other two were stuck trying to hold the mother back, so there was no one to spare to take a hatchet to the doors. I went to her, thinking my wife and I might be able to calm her or at least drag her away so the men could act. My Zisa, though…" he shook his head, smiling. "She marched right up and _punched_ the young mother, hard enough to stun her, then climbed the pulley-rope to the hayloft her own damn self. I wish I'd thought of it, but even if I had it would have done no good. She was smaller than all of us, you see. Other men tried to follow her up, but they were too heavy. Broke the pulley clean off, after she'd gotten inside." Aye, and some nights he still woke to the sound of the metal snapping and the pulley clanking against the soft earth, even after all these centuries.

"What did you do?" Loki asked, eyes wide.

"I moved to help throw water on the flames, or to find a ladder, or _something_ , while the other men started chopping a hole in the side of the barn. They managed to open a space large enough for most everyone to crawl to safety, and all the goats went scattering like ants out of an anthill. Fur singed and smelling up the place… but the fire had gotten between the hayloft and the door. Zisa might have been able to jump through the flames and escape herself, but it turned out some of the children, foolish things, had panicked and gone up to the loft thinking to get away from the fire, and now they were trapped. So Zisa leaned out the pulley door and called to the men to get ready, and started dropping the children out, one by one. Crying and shrieking, but each one of them was caught and ran safe to their mother, save the last." Tyr took a breath and shut his eyes. "Zisa was standing braced in the loft door, reaching back inside for the last of the children, when we heard a crack, and she vanished. The loft collapsed out from under her, down into the inferno, and took her with it. Her, and the only one of the children still inside with her."

"That's awful," breathed Loki; he looked nearly ready to weep on Tyr's behalf, and Tyr couldn't help but feel touched at the sympathy on the boy's face. And admire him a bit, too: _There never was a heart both great and generous_ , the saying went, _that was not tender and compassionate first._

"It was a long time ago," Tyr reminded him gently. "And as awful as it was, it could have been so much worse. Seven children, she dropped to safety before she was taken. And made it possible for the men of the farm to rescue the rest. Twenty-two innocent lives, all told. I will tell you something, Loki: I've saved battle-comrades, more times than I can count over the centuries, but I doubt I've saved as many innocents in all that time as she did in one night. Once my grief no longer blinded me quite so severely, I decided to dedicate my days to honoring her memory, for I've never seen a hero as great as her in any war I've ever fought."

There wasn't much to say after a story like that, and Tyr wasn't expecting a reply; he reached for his mug of tisane and sipped it while Loki took in all he'd said. "It sounds like she was a remarkable person," the boy said finally. He gave a little half-smile. "And here I was, merely concerned about who I might face as a foster-mother."

"Heh." Tyr acknowledged the point with a tip of his mug. "Of the two of us, I was the patient one, but I tended to dither over my choices; I've become more decisive over the years, thanks to her inspiration, but doubtless she would have had you away from Odin long before I chose to act. And publicly scolded the king until he blushed with shame, I should expect." Loki smiled, an impish little grin that Tyr decided he needed to encourage more often. "Have you had enough of the chicken, or did you wish a bit more before I started on it?"

Loki blinked. "Oh. Um. My plate has all I wish, sir, thank you," he said. "I fear I've not much appetite today."

"Shock will do that," nodded Tyr, as he pulled the skin off a drumstick and popped it into his mouth. "Part of the animal body's way of defending itself; if you've a full stomach you might be slower to fight or to flee. So the body shuts off the appetite until it's quite convinced things are safe again."

"Hopefully that will be soon," muttered Loki, reaching for the broth.

"I'm sure it will be, but do not be surprised if you still have moments where the body would rather prepare itself to fight a threat that is no longer present."

"What do you mean?"

Tyr opened his mouth to answer, but never got the chance; damn the Fates for making playthings of them all. The boy had no sooner brought the spoon to his lips than he'd frozen with a gasp, absolutely rigid and his face draining to pasty white. He began to shake, and finally dropped the spoon and leaped back from the table, coughing and sputtering and with a hand hovering near his face.

"Loki?"

"It-it-it's noth—" he began, then gagged and swallowed hard. His breathing was picking up, faster and faster.

"Damn." Tyr was on his feet and rounding the table in an instant, hands where Loki could see them, careful not to touch the boy. He could only hope his newest foster-son could trust him enough to listen. "Loki. _Loki._ Look at me." He snapped his fingers, catching Loki's attention. "That's it. Just look at me."

"I can't, I-I-I can't—"

"It's all right, you don't need to do anything right now except look at me. Can you do that?" Loki nodded, the motion jerky. His eyes were wide, but they met his and stayed there. "Good. That's good. Now. Just breathe with me. Inhale and exhale."

"I can't breathe—"

"You can. You can, all is well. I know it is difficult right now, but you can do this. Inhale and exhale. Will you give me your hand? You don't have to if you don't want to." Loki held up his hands, and Tyr wasn't quite sure if he was trying to comply or trying to ward him off. "Just one hand; here, like this." He stepped closer, and instead of grabbing Loki's hand or wrist, guided it to touch Tyr's own chest, right on the center of his ribcage. As soon as Loki was touching him, Tyr moved his own hands away. "I'll not lay a finger on you that you don't allow, Loki. You are safe. No one in this room will harm you. It is only you and I, and the danger is over. Just breathe. Feel my breath. Can you feel it, Loki?"

Another jerky nod.

"Good. That's very good. You are doing well. All is well. Just keep your eyes on me, and try to match your breath to my breath. In, and out. Yes. That's it. Very good. Just like that. You can do this."

It took a few minutes, but bit by bit the boy's breathing calmed and slowed, and his tremors subsided. His eyes were no longer quite so wide, and he began to get his color back. Finally, he dropped his head with a long sigh and stepped back.

"There you are," said Tyr. "Well done."

Loki covered his face with his hands. "I am so sorry."

"You have done nothing for which you need to apologize," said Tyr, calm but firm.

Loki's voice was muffled behind his hands. "You have a foster-son who is a weakling—"

"I most certainly do _not_. And I daresay I know what weakness looks like, after enough years training it out of idiots who think they want to be heroes. Come. Sit. Episodes like that often leave one exhausted afterward." The boy plopped back down into his seat at the table, but wouldn't look up at him. Tyr sat as well, but pulled his chair around beside Loki's first. He waited, but the boy did not seem inclined to speak, so Tyr opted to fill the silence himself. "A few minutes ago," he said, "we were discussing how the body manages shock. Do you recall?"

Loki nodded, eyes in his lap, and Tyr leaned past him to slide the boy's mug of tea closer. He kept himself close, elbows on knees, speaking quietly but making sure Loki caught every word.

"One of the things the body will do—and never forget, this is an instinctive way of protecting itself—but one of the ways it will do that, sometimes, is to become hyper-vigilant to threats, and to see them in the smallest reminders of whatever the initial trauma happened to be. Suddenly it is as if the threat is taking place all over again, and the body prepares to fight by any means necessary. Racing heart, gasping for breath. Battle memories, we call them in the army. They are _normal_. They are not enjoyable, but they are no sign of weakness, either."

"I was in no battle," said Loki.

"Hm. You faced an enemy who wished you harm, only just this morning. You fought against your foes, despite overwhelming strength against you. You were wounded, you bled, you suffered fear and pain both. Tell me how this is not like a battle."

Loki did not answer, but his silence now seemed more thoughtful and less ashamed.

"I will tell you this as many times as you need to hear it," Tyr promised. "You were incredibly brave, today. And you faced a torment worse than many seasoned veterans have ever encountered. You endured it, and most importantly, you _survived_. It is completely reasonable that you would not walk away from such a battle unmarked. It is, in fact, unfair in the extreme to expect a man to be able to just shrug off such a thing as if it were a small matter, of no great import."

The boy lifted a shaking hand to wipe his eyes, and Tyr's heart ached for him. And longed, once again, to rage at Odin.

"Do these 'battle memories' ever go away?" he asked.

"Eventually, yes," he said. "I can promise you that, because I speak from experience. You do not ever truly forget, I don't think, but the memories will cease to have such a strong hold upon your instincts."

"But there was no threat here," said Loki.

"There need not be," Tyr replied simply. He reached up and handed Loki the mug of tisane. "There need only be reminders. In this case, if I were to guess, it might be having something touch your lips, as the spoon did. Or possibly having something salty in your mouth like the broth."

"It was… it was a bit of both," Loki said finally. He brought the mug to his lips cautiously and took a tentative sip, then a deeper swallow when the taste of the tea didn't trigger a reaction. "I think I might have managed either one on my own, but the two together…"

"Of course," said Tyr. "And as far as your animal brain is concerned, perfectly reasonable. We can work to avoid such things in the future, or if you wish, we can try to manage them. Practice facing them, in small increments over time."

"I think I prefer not to be ruled by a fear of spoons," said Loki. "I will face them." And oh, his foster son was a courageous lad indeed, but Tyr could see the way he tightened up across his shoulders and the way he was blinking.

"A brave plan," he answered, "and I will be proud to assist you with it. But not today."

Loki's eyes drooped shut in relief. "Not today." Tyr risked putting his hand on the boy's shoulder, offering him reassurance if he wished it, and the boy leaned into his touch a moment before he caught himself.

"Do you wish to have anything else here to eat, or are you quite finished?"

"…I can't," Loki said quietly. "I am sorry, sir, but if I have anything more besides this tea, I think I shall be sick."

"That is fine," said Tyr. "Then I propose that you show me what remains to be packed away in your seidr space, take the teapot into your bedchambers, and lie down. A round in the ring with one's battle memories can be exhausting. I shall eat what is left here, finish packing your things, and wake you when the porters arrive. Does this seem like a sound strategy to you?"

Loki took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Well, then." They both stood; on an impulse, Tyr cupped the back of Loki's neck, pulled him close, and dropped a rough kiss onto his hair. Loki startled at first, then permitted himself a second to lean against Tyr and heave another long sigh before he pulled away.

And if a few minutes later, before heading off to his bed, he worked up the courage to throw an arm around Tyr and mumble a "thank you" into his shirt, well, there was no one around to see, and Tyr certainly wasn't going to say anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The proverb that Tyr recalls is actually a paraphrase of a quite from poet Robert Frost: "There never was any heart truly great and generous, that was not also tender and compassionate."
> 
> Zisa is listed in some medieval accounts as the wife of Tyr; her name is an etymological double of his (Tyr/Tiw/Ziw), kind of the way some gods were simply named Lord and Lady, or the masculine and feminine versions of the same adjective. She doesn't turn up by name in the Eddas, so I figured this was a good way to include her without going overboard.
> 
> Next, I wanted to thank you all for the tremendous reviews and comments and encouragement. I really appreciate it. I've put together a tiny little chat room [in Chatzy](http://us20.chatzy.com/15176038255099) if you want to come and talk about Loki, and especially about fic writing that features Loki. I figured I'd try to pay forward the encouragement you all have given me. It's a small room, though, limit ten people at a time, so if you can't get in that's probably why.
> 
> Finally, I am CRAVING fanart, for this or any other of my stories. Let me know if you're interested in crafting any. I'm just about to the point where I'm going to pay someone to make something. 
> 
> Thanks for reading the story, and for making it to the end of these notes!


	8. Courtyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which final preparations are made, farewells are spoken, and Loki leaves the palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience while I recovered from completion of Fate's Guardian. Writing that one tired me out, and I needed a little rest. I want to keep writing for you all, but I don't want it to feel like an onerous slog. I don't know how regular updates on this one will be, but I do want to move the story forward, so fear not! I won't leave you hangin'.

"Loki? The porters are here." Tyr tapped on the door to the boy's bedchamber as he spoke, and it swung open. The boy himself was lying on his bed, fully clothed and staring at the ceiling. "Were you able to rest?"

"I didn't sleep, sir," he replied, sitting up, "but the quiet helped a little."

"I am happy to hear it. Come, let me help you into your armor." This particular harness was largely ceremonial, unlike Loki's training armor, and showed it in the fine engraving on the breastplate and vambraces, and the jewels inset into the pauldrons. And of course the leg covering, which Loki had already put on, was more or less a decorative pair of trousers with small plates stitched onto the leather, rather than real armor. But it was still effective protection, and protocol dictated that the prince wear it whenever he left the palace in any official capacity.

It was also the only thing left unpacked in the room, save for the bed linens; the boy had been busy rather than napping, while Tyr finished in the little kitchen. There was a neat pile of canvas duffels and saddlebags stacked atop Loki's footlocker. Even the wall tapestry had been rolled up and neatly stowed among the boy's other belongings.

"I wonder if I will still be expected to wear this if I am no longer living in the palace," said Loki.

"You will still be a prince," answered Tyr, buckling the breast-and-back under Loki's arms and settling the pauldrons into place. He held the vambraces open for the boy to slide his forearms into, then began to lace them shut. "After all, how many people have the rank to have the chief general act as their squire, hm?"

Loki gave him a cautious, wry smile for that one. "Somehow I don't think that my rank will allow me to tell you what to do, sir."

Tyr chuckled. "Not for a while yet, no. But it will happen."

"That will be a strange day," said Loki, and Tyr patted him on the shoulder before adjusting his pauldrons one last time.

"There you are." Loki would not have a ceremonial helm until he was a bit older, so all that was left was for Tyr to place the boy's ceremonial gorget around Loki's neck like an especially gaudy necklace, then fasten his cloak to its hidden clips on Loki's pauldrons. "One last thing," he said, and crossed to Loki's bedside table to collect the silk sash he had worn across his mouth earlier.

"I hadn't forgotten," said Loki, but he was eyeing the thing with trepidation.

Tyr stopped, studying his foster son's face carefully. "Will you be all right?"

"Yes, sir. I think so." He reached for the strip of fabric, and Tyr handed it over. "It's just… I won't be able to speak, or it will spoil the ruse."

"I will speak on your behalf," Tyr said solemnly. Loki looked up in surprise, and Tyr knew he'd caught the deeper meaning. _I will stand beside you, and before you if need be._ He could only hope that the day would come soon when Loki would understand that to mean, _You need have no fear, for you are my son._ Tyr broke the moment before the boy could become overwhelmed. "And you do still have your hunting signals, of course."

"Oh. Uh, yes, of course."

They left his nose uncovered, this time, at Tyr's suggestion, so that the people would be able to recognize him better. If Odin had intended to make a public statement in the way he had treated his younger son, then Tyr would by the Norns make sure that statement was heard, loud and clear. It would not be his fault if the message the people received was not the one Odin had thought he was making.

Tyr was unsure whether the boy was aware of the statement he himself was about to make in the eyes of the public, or if perhaps habit had led him to wear the armor rather than packing it, but he approved nonetheless. The prince was, after all, leaving the palace; let the people see him, and discuss why.

Two times around the boy's head with the sash, making it tighter than Loki had had it before so that it would not slip, smoothing it so that it would not be uncomfortable, and checking repeatedly with Loki to make sure that the touch of fabric to his lips was not triggering a terrifying memory. Tyr let Loki tie the actual knot, and watched as he took a deep breath when it was done.

"All right?"

"Mm-hmm." Loki nodded, and brought his hands down into the sign for _advance troops_ , surprising Tyr into a chuckle. Clever lad.

The boy's eyes crinkled in amusement, then he shut them, and took another deep breath; as Tyr watched, his face relaxed, then his brow furrowed a little as if he were in pain. He flexed his fingers once, twice, and dropped his shoulders and his chin, so that he was sagging forward a little. He took a couple of steps toward his bed, paused, then took a few more, only this time he shuffled his feet a bit, and caught himself as if he were struggling to keep his feet. Tyr's eyebrow rose; on the one hand, Loki might appreciate a journey to Alfheim to see some of their theatrical performances sometime, but on the other, Tyr wasn't sure the boy needed any more training in the art.

Looking at it another way, however, the boy had likely had to rely on deceptions like this one quite a lot in recent years, simply to protect himself from Odin's abuse; the trickster was showing quite a lot of trust to the old soldier now, simply by letting him see how he put this performance together. In a way, Tyr felt, it was an honor to be included in it.

Loki staggered back toward Tyr and reached out for his arm; Tyr offered his elbow and the boy leaned on it heavily—more heavily than he had when his injuries were still bleeding and unhealed. Tyr snorted. "Are you going to live?" he asked dryly. The boy broke his little mask just long enough to wink at him, before going back to his bedraggled pose. Tyr just shook his head, but he didn't hide his smile either.

He made sure to put on his parade-ground face, though, before leading Loki out through the study and into the receiving room. There were ten men standing there now, handpicked from the leaders of the senior cohorts at the barracks. Well-trained, respectful, and attentive, they weren't that much older than Loki and Thor, but enough so that they were officially of age and had gotten most of the stupidity of youth pounded out of them on the training grounds. They would still gossip over an ale, the same as the palace servants, but with fewer embellishments to the tale, and their words would be given more weight when they went out to the mead halls this evening.

Of course, gossip wasn't the reason Tyr had sent for them, or at least not the primary one. No; he'd done so because he knew he could trust in their loyalty to him, and their sympathy toward an unfairly-mistreated fellow recruit. Tyr had no fear that the palace servants would treat Loki poorly, based on what he'd seen so far, but they were not the only people in the palace, and many of the nobility had at the very least thought it prudent to emulate Odin's behavior toward Loki in the past. Some of them, of course, had outright enjoyed the tacit permission to torment someone of higher rank than they with impunity. Tyr's newest foster son did not deserve to face sneers and snide remarks from people who were more concerned with maintaining Odin's status quo than in being decent Aesir worthy of the name.

"Gentlemen," he said, and they all snapped to attention. One or two flicked their eyes over, taking in Loki's appearance as best they could without staring. "I know not what rumors may have reached the barracks since this morning's court, but if they included word that His Highness was injured by two dwarfs, while the All-Father did nothing to stop it, then there has been at least a grain of truth to what you have heard. I have exercised my authority to remove a recruit from mistreatment by his family, and have claimed the prince as my foster-son. Allow me to present to you His Highness, Loki Odinsson-Tyrsson."

Loki's grip tightened reflexively on Tyr's arm for an instant, as the cohort leaders saluted, though whether it was because of the salute or Tyr's naming him, Tyr couldn't say. The men all held their salute until Loki blinked in realization, and returned it. Tyr wondered if he'd ever been given formal signs of respect before today.

"Now, as to your duties: There are some who would complain at the task we set before you, claim that lugging baggage was not fit duty for a warrior of Asgard; I trust you know better. As my foster-son, His Highness is leaving the palace with all his worldly possessions, to dwell with me for the foreseeable future. So yes, you will transport baggage, but you will also be aiding His Highness in beginning a new life, one wherein he is treated with the respect and care he deserves from those who would call themselves his family. As such, you will guard those belongings, and His Highness, from those who would do him harm. Any questions?"

For the most part, there weren't. No, they didn't really expect hostilities to erupt in the streets; no, their prince was not currently in much pain, thanks to the chief healer; yes, their prince greatly appreciated their concern—Loki himself nodded and bowed to them in thanks, to the soldiers' visible surprise. Yes, it was true that Loki was unable to speak just now because of the dwarfs; no, they would most certainly not be permitted to leave Asgard unscathed for such insult.

Loki gave Tyr rather an odd look at that last remark, most probably because Tyr had been unable to keep the full force of his rage entirely out of his voice. Off the battlefield, Tyr thought of himself as a fairly even-tempered sort, but all the races of the Nine Realms had their stereotypes and caricatures, and like many such generalizations, they were based somewhat in truth. The elves were aloof and strange (and would poison you quietly if needed); the dwarfs were forthright and proud (prone to obsessiveness, and could hold a grudge for centuries); Midgarders were perpetually in a hurry (living their short lives in ignorance), and Aesir were boisterous and did nothing by halves (and were viciously bloodthirsty when angered).

Tyr had banked that fire, but it still burned. He would see to his foster son's needs first, but he would not be able to end his day and sleep until he had seen Brokkr's and Eitri's blood spilled for what they had done.

The ten cohort leaders, directed by Tyr and Loki, gathered the boy's things and brought them out into the corridors with brisk efficiency; more than one of them had done a double-take when they'd caught Loki's hand signals, and at least two had openly complimented him for his cleverness and skill with them. Before long, the little wagons in the corridors began to fill, and the men established a relay to deliver them to the stables and bring them back empty.

In less than an hour, Tyr and Loki stood in an empty chamber that had once been Loki's study. Only the desk, table, and bare shelves remained; their boots echoed a little on the bare stone of the floor. Loki turned around slowly, a lost expression on his face.

"It will be all right, Loki," said Tyr quietly. "I have not forgotten how sudden all this is, nor how quickly events have moved for you today. I know you may not feel this way right now, and it is soon yet to expect such a thing, yet I have hope that you will be able to settle in under my roof, and make a home for yourself there. You are not without a place to go. Remember that."

Loki nodded, and his hands came up. _Message acknowledged._

Tyr rested a hand on his armored shoulder. "Give yourself a moment to say farewell," he suggested. "I can wait for you in the corridor, if you prefer."

But Loki shook his head. _Wait here,_ he signaled. He took a deep breath, looking around one last time, and smoothed his hands down the front of his armor in a nervous gesture. One more deep breath, then Loki swallowed, and signed, _Ready_ , and reached out again for Tyr's arm.

Two of the senior recruits were waiting for them in the corridor, and fell in behind them as they made their way slowly to the stables. The boy remembered Tyr's advice from court, and kept his head high, but did not make eye contact with anyone… at least, not at first.

Servants, and some officials and nobles, paused to watch them pass. No few of them eyed Loki's covered mouth with unease. Some bowed, or even murmured respectful greetings to the prince.

"Safe travels, my prince."

"Farewell, my prince."

"Blessings, Your Highness."

"Be well, my prince."

Loki's fingers tightened a little on Tyr's arm.

"Take care of him, General." This last from a stout matron balancing a toddler on her hip, holding the hand of another, and surrounded by five or six more children, all dressed in noble finery. She offered Loki a worried smile. "Good fortune and good dreams from now on, young prince."

Loki paused, clearly touched, and nodded gingerly in reply. The matron's smile grew wider, and perhaps a bit teary.

When they reached the end of the corridor, before they rounded the corner Loki looked back over his shoulder, but all but one or two of the servants had disappeared.

* * *

It was the same in the stables, or nearly so; the floating wagons Tyr had ordered were waiting in the stable yard, neatly loaded and flanked by the other eight cohort leaders. Thor was there, fidgeting as he stood beside his horse. Grooms held Tyr's horse ready, and two others that he assumed were Loki's mount and packhorse. The other stable hands had gathered, one and all, to see them off.

To Tyr's surprise, Frigga was there as well.

She held herself with regal dignity, as she always did, though the general could see her struggle to maintain her composure at the sight of Loki's face, his mouth bound in silk and expression wary. Tyr wasn't sure if it was the injury or the wariness that bothered her more.

She stepped up to them both, holding out her hands to take Loki's own. "My son." Her eyes roamed his face, then lingered with a little furrow on the silk sash; after a moment her expression cleared. "Ah," she breathed. She lifted one hand to brush the boy's hair off his face. "I see now. My heart is eased in more ways than one, now."

"My queen." She knew, Tyr was certain of it; but would she reveal their secret?

"General." Frigga nodded to him, composed once more. "Your oath to protect my son is sacred; all in the court saw the flash of light that signified the Norns' own blessing upon your vows. I have every faith that you will care for Loki as I have cared for him." One corner of her mouth lifted into something too brief and pained to be called a smile. "Better, in fact, for I have failed him in many ways, and I do not believe that you shall."

"I am certain you did all that you could, my queen." A shame that Loki's mother must also be Odin's wife; the double pressures of bowing to his will and the demands of politics had likely left her with little freedom to protect her son.

"Indeed. Yet you will do more." She turned to look Loki over one more time, drinking in his features. "I could not protect you as you deserved, my son, and for that I am sorrier than I can say." Loki shook his head, fretfully trying to deny her words, but she only reached up to catch his face—gently, carefully—in both hands. "General Tyr's words in court this morning were entirely correct. My duty ought always to have been to you before it was to Odin; that I have reasons for not having protected you as I should does not make that any less true, nor excuse my failure. I could not stand between you and him often enough… but I could at least come now, to bid you a proper farewell, and to tell you that my love goes with you always."

As close as Loki stood, he stepped closer still, to rest his forehead against hers. The two squeezed one another's hands tightly in lieu of a kiss, and Tyr glanced away to grant them privacy.

"Please, take these with you." Tyr turned back to see Frigga taking a bundle from her maid: soft, colorful fabric folded loosely, with a sealed packet resting on top. Loki's eyes welled up, and he gathered the bundle into his arms hesitantly and stroked one hand across the fabric, blinking back tears. "I will try to visit you soon. Until then, I hope what you read in the packet will offer you… an explanation, if not solace." She reached up one last time and guided Loki's head down, to place a kiss on his forehead. "My blessings and my love, my beautiful son. Light of Yggdrasil shine upon you."

With that, she stepped back; Loki bowed to her, the queen curtseyed in return, and then she and her handmaiden moved aside to make room for the horses, and grooms, and all the rest.

"A mounting block for His Highness, if you please," said Tyr to the nearest; the lad took a good long look at Loki's face, and nodded. Loki didn't even notice at first, tearing his gaze away from his mother's with visible effort.

They made a bit of a show of it, Tyr assisting Loki up the steps of the block and Loki moving slowly into the saddle, slumping as much as his armor would permit. With fumbling fingers, he tucked Frigga's packet into his breastplate and took up the reins in one hand, clutching the fabric bundle close with the other. Grooms rushed to guide his feet into the stirrups, and Tyr did not miss the worried gazes passed around him by soldier and stable hand alike. Even Thor looked concerned, and he knew better.

Tyr swung himself easily into the saddle and gathered up the reins. "We'll move at the walk today, gentlemen," he ordered. "Wagons first, followed by myself and His Highness. Thor, behind us. Gunnar and Ivar will bring up the rear. Bjorn: you know the route, do you not?"

"Aye, General."

"Have we your leave, my queen?"

Frigga nodded, composed once more. "You do, General."

Tyr saluted, and all the soldiers followed suit. "Lead us off."

And with the steady clop of hooves on stone, the little procession took Loki from the palace and descended into the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nerd note: on a regular knight's armor, the "gorget" is the piece that protects the neck and throat, like a big huge collar. It typically extends all the way down to the collarbones and can come all the way up to the chin, or even beyond for some types of jousting armor (jousting armor is weird). A "ceremonial" gorget, being for show, is much less effective, often just being an elaborate half-moon of metal on a chain, that hangs at or below the collarbones. You can look up images of ceremonial gorgets on Google, but for some reason most of the more accurate depictions are all labeled Nazi SS and I didn't really want that association. BUT. On Loki's movie armor, that gold half-moon on the upper part of his chest could easily be a ceremonial gorget, as opposed to a metal inlay on a black breastplate.


	9. Procession Through the City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki, Tyr, and his belongings make the trek from the royal palace to Tyr's home. Neither they nor the author accomplish this as quickly as planned.

The little procession left the palace grounds and descended into the city proper, but before they had gone only a couple of blocks, Tyr could sense that something was off. It wasn't triggering Tyr's instincts for danger; there wasn't an air of hostility, but he couldn't quite pinpoint the cause at first.

The sight of children, peering at them over a rooftop balcony, brought the feeling into focus.

Just after lunchtime, with the sun high in the sky, this part of the city should have been bustling. The route between the All-Father's palace and the chief general's manor was one of the main thoroughfares through the capital, and after a court, an impromptu market often emerged near the palace to take advantage of the increase in travel through the area. There should have been traffic, the noise of thousands of voices, children playing along the edges of the streets. The children on the rooftop were only watching Tyr and Loki, and the floating wagons and their escort, without speaking.

The street was relatively quiet, but not empty. As they got further from the palace, Tyr spotted more people, gathered along the sides of the road and standing on rooftops or balconies, watching the little procession come. Men dressed in court finery had paused on a street corner to talk, but ceased and turned to stare as Tyr and Loki approached. Women bustling along with baskets on their heads kept their children close, and glanced up with worried expressions, their eyes lingering on the sash wrapped across Loki's mouth. A handful of laborers huddled around a table with steaming mugs in their hands watched them pass, faces solemn. When they noticed Tyr watching them, they all nodded in respect, which was a relief; whatever unease was here, it wasn't about to explode into civil unrest. The people were not smiling, but they were not angry or fearful, either.

As they reached the market proper, the crowds grew, but the noise did not. People stepped respectfully out of the way of the floating wagons, lining the streets until they almost resembled a parade route. Retired veterans nodded and gave salutes to their general; they tried to do the same for Loki, but could not catch his eye. The boy was keeping his head high as Tyr had instructed him earlier, but looked neither to the left nor the right. His hands were clenched tightly, one on the reins and the other on the bundle his mother had given him.

"Are you well?" Tyr asked quietly.

Loki barely turned his head, just enough to look at him sidelong, and gave a stiff nod. His gelding tossed its head, picking up on its rider's nervousness.

"They're not here to mock," said Tyr. "Look at them. Look at their faces. I see concern, and respect, but not scorn." When Loki didn't respond, Tyr nudged his mount closer, so he could reach out and rest a hand on Loki's arm. Around them, he thought he heard the crowd murmur in response. "Go on."

Loki glanced at him again, then with obvious reluctance, turned his head outward, just a little; it was enough. The gathered townspeople responded to him immediately: women brought hands up to cover their gasps, while others curtseyed; men saluted, or nodded, or leaned over to speak in one another's ears; children stared and one or two looked ready to cry before their mothers shushed them.

Loki couldn't stand their scrutiny for long, ducking his head before turning back to catch Tyr's eye. The general watched as the boy took a deep breath and regained his composure, but Tyr himself wasn't so sure that would work for him here. The streets of Asgard were not court, and the opinions Odin wished to foment among the nobles were not necessarily the opinions held by the everyday citizens. There was only so aloof the people here would allow their prince to be.

His suspicions were proved correct when one little girl darted out of the crowd, ignoring her mother's gasp, and came right up to their horses. Loki's mount snorted as the boy reined him in.

"You got a ouchie. Somebody hurted you?" Her little voice piped up, loud and clear in the sudden silence; the only other sound was her mother's voice, hushed and appalled: "Gudrun! Gudrun, come back here this instant!"

Loki briefly searched the crowd for the woman, but the little girl must have tugged on his pant leg or something similar, judging by the muffled laughter Tyr could see. Loki looked back down, and while Tyr couldn't see his face from this angle, his free hand fidgeted against the bundle he held in his lap.

"Somebody mean hurted you?" asked the child again, and Loki nodded hesitantly.

Tyr heard the little girl's shoes scrape on the cobblestones as she moved; he leaned in his saddle for a better view and could just see her feet, as she first stood on tiptoe and then began to hop, trying to reach the prince. More people in the crowd reacted to that, and Tyr even heard Thor chuckle before he covered it up; he could only imagine how adorable the child must look.

Loki leaned forward, reached down, and came back up holding a rag doll in a dress made from scraps of fabric. He looked at it, then at the girl, bemusedly.

"That's Little Inge," said the child. "My mama is Big Inge and my dolly is Little Inge, and she makes ouchies feel better. You should take her so she can make your ouchie better."

Loki, like any adolescent boy, clearly had no idea what to do next. According to etiquette, a prince was meant to graciously accept well-intentioned gifts from the populace; as an older youth, it was kind to be gentle toward small children who didn't know any better; but as a youth struggling to be seen as an adult, he'd just been handed a _ragdoll_ , by a _girl_. Tyr hid his smile, and sat taller in his saddle.

"A worthy gift indeed, Gudrun Ingesdottir," he said, solving his son's dilemma for him. The child, unable to see him from the other side of Loki's horse, ducked under his nose to peer up at Tyr. "Your kind heart does you credit."

Loki backed his horse away from the child and waited until she looked up at him again, then gave a little bow and the hand signal for _received/acknowledged_. He looked over at Tyr significantly.

"His Highness says 'thank you' for the gift, young Ingesdottir. I am sure he will return Little Inge to you once he has recovered."

The child, no longer hidden behind Loki's mount, beamed up at the both, showing the gap in her front teeth. "My mama says you curtsey like this." She hiked up her skirt and bobbed down and back up, like a bird pecking at seed. The bystanders watching were openly grinning, now, and the soldiers who were supposed to be watching over Loki's belongings in the wagons weren't hiding their mirth very well, either. "Is that right?"

Loki nodded to her, and she smiled again, and did a reasonable approximation of his hand signal back to him.

"Go back to your mother, now, there's a good lass," said Tyr, and she curtseyed again and ran back to the side of the street. Tyr watched a harried-looking woman, with hair the same color as the child's, scoop Gudrun up into her arms and nod to them both in visible relief. He let her see his smile—there was no harm done, after all—and memorized her face so they could return the child's plaything later that evening.

The wagons started forward again, but the little girl's gesture seemed to have opened a floodgate among the townspeople. No one deliberately impeded their progress, but as they moved down the street, the crowd took up more and more space on either side of them, pressing closer to get a better look at Loki.

"Norns smile on you, my prince," an old woman called, her querulous voice rising above the hubbub, and others added their blessings:

"Good journey, my prince!"

"I wish you well, my prince—" "And I." "And I!"

The crowd pressed closer, and grew louder, and Tyr began to grow concerned. The cohort leaders at the wagons looked to him, and he signaled, _Observe. Hold fire._ They would just have to see if the mood changed for the worse.

"General," called one man, "is it true what we heard?"

"That would depend on what you have heard," Tyr replied. Damn. He'd been hoping to avoid too many questions on the way home. It would not do to allow rumors to get out of hand, nor to endorse any of them too far, unless Tyr wanted a coup or possibly even a civil war on his hands. "You know how easily stories can change their shape in the telling."

"The All-Father hired dwarfs to torment his own son!"

"The dwarfs threaten war upon us."

"His Highness goes into exile for a crime against Nidavellir."

Tyr held up a hand, and the crowd fell silent. "Your stories are exaggerated," he said, making sure his voice carried, "and there is no call for excitement. The dwarfs accused Loki of a crime, and demanded the right to punish him for it. The All-Father, for whatever reason, did not hold them at bay long enough to convene a Thing to determine the prince's guilt or innocence. We do not know, right now, whether any such crime was committed."

"I told you he was a trickster," someone muttered.

"Even if His Highness were guilty of crime, I do not see how torturing him publicly could be called justice, by any stretch of the imagination," said Tyr. "Yet that was the sentence that the dwarfs demanded, and that was what the All-Father chose to permit. I was displeased by this outcome; this is not the first time that I have seen Loki mistreated by the man he called father, therefore I exercised my authority to take the prince into my custody, as my foster son. If the All-Father wishes to dispute that, he is within his rights to do so, but we left the palace with his permission, and we go now to my halls with the prince's belongings. He remains a prince of Asgard, but he will dwell with me from this day forward."

The silence took on a thoughtful quality now, rather than a volatile one, and Tyr took a slow breath in relief.

"What of the dwarfs?" someone called. "We heard they—" the anonymous voice stopped short, and continued more quietly, "we heard they committed a barbarity against His Highness."

"They claimed that for Loki's crime, they were owed his head," said Tyr, and the crowd gasped. "His Highness was clever and said they could not have his neck, so rather than killing him, they used enchanted thread and stitched his mouth closed, that he might not twist words any further in their dealings with him."

More gasps, and no few cries of dismay. "And the All-Father truly allowed that?" said someone on the other side of the street. She sounded caught between horror and disbelief, as with many of the other voices Tyr could hear among the crowd.

He sighed; so much for keeping the populace from growing volatile. "He did. He commanded His Highness Thor to hold His Highness Loki in place, so that the dwarfs could commit this fell deed."

More voices from the crowd, growing louder. "My prince!" someone called behind them, and Tyr turned to see three older men addressing Thor. "Is this true? Did you really do such a thing to your own brother?"

Thor, thank the Norns, had the good sense to look Tyr's way before answering. "I know not why it was done in this manner," he said carefully, "but aye. I was given no choice but to…" He pressed his lips together and looked to Tyr again, warily.

"Enough," Tyr called into the growing noise of the crowd. "We none of us here gathered have all the information needed to decide what to think, nor what to do. We do not know all the motives, not of the dwarfs nor of the All-Father himself. And of course we cannot hear His Highness's account of what occurred. It is premature to act on what we do not yet know." To his immense relief, the crowd began to quiet once more, although they were still murmuring to one another. "In truth, I have done all that is within anyone's right and power to do at this time: I have granted His Highness Loki sanctuary and the right to call himself my foster son. The fostering ceremony was witnessed by all, and the queen herself has said that it was blessed by the Norns themselves. As for the dwarfs, there will be a Thing convened tonight to determine whether or not they will face retribution, for harming a member of Asgard's royal family. That act, at least, is not in doubt."

Little by little, members of the crowd began to nod, and to speak more calmly to one another.

"Are there any other questions?"

The tone of the crowd began to subside, satisfied. There were still plenty who looked upon Loki with worry or unhappiness on their faces, but they seemed less inclined now to demand that Odin answer for his actions.

"My shield, as always, General," said a younger man, fresh out of his mandatory term.

"And mine." "Aye, and mine."

Tyr shook his head. "It will not come to anything so drastic, I am certain," he said, signaling to the wagon just ahead of him. The drivers and cohort leaders saw the movement and started forward again, parting the crowd gradually. "Yet your loyalty, as always, is commendable. Remember that you are honorable citizens of Asgard, and live according to that honor, and all shall be well."

"Even so," said a man holding up a round loaf of bread. He caught Loki's eye and bowed. "Health and long life to you, my prince."

Loki's hands were getting full already, between Frigga's parting gift and the little girl's doll. Luckily, the man noticed that, and tucked the loaf into a likely spot on the wagon immediately in front of them. Ragnar, the nearest cohort leader, moved to stop him, but Tyr waved him off.

"For the prince," Tyr heard behind him, and saw someone passing a bundle to Thor. As they traveled now, people crowded close, touching Loki's leg or making sure to catch his attention.

"Blessings to you, my prince," people would say. About every ten paces or so, someone would offer a gift to the boy, who truly did not appear to have any idea how to take their gestures.

"Health and long life to you," said one woman, passing him an amber pendant.

"Speedy healing, my prince," said a woman in temple robes; she draped a garland of… something aromatic, across the gelding's withers.

The back of the wagon nearest them collected another loaf of bread, a wheel of cheese, and two bottles of wine. As they passed a well-known public house, the owner stepped forward and placed a gold-capped drinking horn next to them. "Your health, my prince. General," she said.

Several of the men looked Loki over and saluted. "You have my shield," said one, the scar at his neck explaining the rasp in his voice.

"And mine, my prince."

A sharp-featured man in a leather apron, black hair braided tightly to his scalp, stepped up to Loki's side. "Strength in adversity, my prince," he said, and unfolded a rectangle of soft leather the same color as his hands. Tyr caught the outline of a fine set of throwing knives, neatly sheathed, before the man rolled the leather back up and placed it on the wagon. "If the thread is enchanted," he said quietly as their horses caught up to him, gesturing toward Loki's bound mouth, "perhaps an enchanted blade will cut it."

Tyr stopped them, leaning forward in his saddle. "Völund the Smith," he said, and Loki's eyes grew wide. The two men had not met before this day, but the master smith's reputation preceded him. Völund was as legendary in his field of expertise as Tyr was in his.

"General."

"This is a kingly gift, Völund," said Tyr, as Loki nodded emphatically. "I will not insult you by refusing it, but surely you will allow us to pay for such a treasure."

"I will not," said Völund. "You will repay me by making use of it, today or another day. Hopefully on many days to come." A sly smile stretched across his face. "If nothing else, being in the good graces of Asgard's chief general and one of her princes can only do me good in the future."

Loki coughed a little and brought one hand up to cover his face, as Tyr allowed his smile to match the smith's own. "Ah, so part kindness and part practicality, is that your motive?" Völund merely folded his arms and leaned back a little, his smile unchanging, and Tyr nodded. "Your honesty is refreshing."

At this, Völund shrugged. "So was your decision to take the boy. Asgard could do with a little shaking up, to my mind." He sobered a bit, and acknowledged the prince. "And I cannot abide cruelty, in any case. Odin All-Father is not above the law, and his misdeeds have been tolerated too long before now. You, General, did a good thing today, and you, lad, did not deserve this, whether you truly stole from the dwarfs or not." He stepped back to allow the horses to pass and gave a little bow. "My prince. General."

"Master Völund."

That was the last time Tyr and Loki needed to halt their progress, but even so, the trip through the city took twice as long as usual. The wagons in front of them collected a small pile of gifts, from children's baubles to fresh fruit to a fine new quilt for Loki's bed. Tyr could see a few books here and there, and a cloth sack that rattled when its keeper dropped it onto the wagon bed. One old woman held up several skeins of brightly-dyed yarn for them to approve of before she tucked them in among Loki's belongings. Tyr wasn't quite sure what she thought the prince would do with such things, but he'd seen his share of tokens from the populace before, after a successful battle or the like. The people needed to show their support to a member of royalty, almost more than Loki needed to see it.

Once they were away from the bustle nearest the palace, the gifts became mostly flowers, although children still ran up and left baubles and beads, and elders dropped the occasional coin. Throughout the procession, the blessings and the touches to Loki's leg or elbow, or his horse's neck or flank, never ceased. (Tyr, and even Thor, received their fair share as well, though the ones who met Tyr's eye were generally more discreet, quieter in their well-wishes, with offers of aid accompanied by hands on sword-hilts and significant looks Loki's way. Tyr would have to do something to manage that segment of the population.) Their route had become a narrow path through a crowded street; although the throng grew less dense as they left the market district, they were never able to go even as fast as a brisk walk, until they'd passed the temple and memorial park, and left the crowds behind completely.

The floating wagons were covered in flowers, so that Loki's belongings were almost entirely hidden. Loki, Thor, and even Tyr himself were all holding one or more small tokens meant to honor the boy. Loki's horse shook his head and settled, now that they were away from the crowds, and Tyr could smell the aroma of whatever the garland was made of draped across his neck.

"Are you all right?" Tyr asked him, as the road widened and Thor pulled up alongside.

Loki looked at him, that lost and bewildered expression on his face from when they'd stood in his empty chambers for a final time. _Uncertain,_ he signed, and held up a few of the tokens draped across his saddle horn. _Surprise. New information._ After a pause he added, _Good. Acknowledge. Uncertain,_ in quick succession.

"You weren't expecting such an outpouring of support," Tyr guessed. _And you're not sure you've done anything to deserve it, either_ , he added silently.

"My brother is always like this when someone gives him an unexpected gift," said Thor quietly. He reached out to pass Loki another token, this one a carved stone amulet of some kind, that made the boy blink rapidly and tuck it into his breastplate. "He always says I act like such things are my due whether I deserve them or not, and I always say he acts like he did not expect anyone to notice him at all, much less show him kindness." He sobered, then. "I suppose I can see why he thinks that."

 _End message,_ signed Loki, and nudged his horse a little faster. Thor only sighed, and fell back into position behind them.

It pleased Tyr immensely, to see that Loki had garnered such goodwill with the people; more, obviously, than he'd realized was possible. No doubt Odin had tried discreetly to discourage such affection, and would almost certainly have tried to isolate the boy from even being aware of it, but after today that would be all but impossible for him to continue. The All-Father had finally overstepped, beyond what the people would tolerate any longer, and their reaction today had been far more vehement than he might have suspected. From the feel of the crowds, and judging by how close they'd come to an actual uprising in the streets, Tyr would say that this sentiment had been building for a long time, and again, he could only regret not having acted sooner to protect Loki and appease the people.


	10. Arrival at Vingolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyr receives a message, and a guest; we learn of Loki's talent for languages; Loki gets his first look at his new home.

As they traveled, the buildings spread out and farmland began to appear, the growing crops waving serenely in the breeze or the flocks of livestock grazing peacefully. Loki had finally begun to relax into the quiet when they heard hoofbeats coming up behind them quickly.

“General Tyr?” called the rider as he approached, dressed as one of Heimdall’s couriers. Word from the Bifrost, then, which meant Hoenir.

“Aye!” They nudged their horses off to one side of the road and waited.

“Message, General,” said the rider. He passed over a scroll. “I am to tell you that Hoenir has delivered your messages and received a response, and will meet you at Vingólf. He brings with him two guests, and with your permission would have them attend the Thing this evening with your party.”

Tyr’s eyebrows rose. Had Hreidmarr sent people to apprehend Brokkr and Eitri? That would indicate that there were deeper affairs afoot than were first apparent. But then, for dwarfs to attack a prince of Asgard, there would naturally follow a host of political implications, which Tyr had hoped to avoid dealing with if possible. Worst case, Hreidmarr had sent someone to protect Brokkr and Eitri, which would be tantamount to a declaration of war, without overwhelming evidence to condemn Loki for whatever it was he really did on Nidavellir.

The general thanked the messenger, who saluted both him and the princes before wheeling his horse and cantering back the way he had come.

“What news, weaponsmaster?” asked Thor, riding up beside them.

“I’ll know once I read it, and I’ll read it once we’ve arrived at Vingólf.”

“Is it much farther?”

“Not really,” said Tyr. “Once we top this rise you’ll be able to see Idavoll, the plain that marks the center of Asgard, and on the other side the rise that leads up to Vingólf. The day is quite clear; you should be able to make out the hall from here.”

“I’ve often wondered why your hall lies so far from the palace,” said Thor. “Wouldn’t you be expected to live closer to the barracks and such?”

“I actually do live nearer the main posting for the army,” Tyr explained. “It is only the training grounds that are closer to the palace, where the Royal Guard are also housed. As for the distance, both Gladsheim and Vingólf are equidistant from the bounds of Idavoll. In fact, when your grandfather Buri ruled, Vingólf _was_ the royal palace. It was Bor who built Gladsheim, and dwelled there before he became king.” There had been some sort of feud between the two men, according to legend, so that when Bor was crowned, he insisted on remaining in Gladsheim and removing all royal business to his own palace. In essence, Bor relocated Asgard’s capital, as people found it more convenient to live near where the power was.

“I never knew any of this,” said Thor, and on Tyr’s other side, Loki snorted.

 _Yesterday. Urgent report,_ were the signals he gave, and Tyr chuckled. “I think your brother is suggesting you ought to have read about this information already. Perhaps in your history lessons?”

“Hmph. Brother, even when you cannot speak, you talk too much.”

Loki, whose eyes had until that point been amused, went suddenly solemn and still, then turned his face away. Tyr winced; Thor really could be a thoughtless oaf sometimes, for all that he had a good heart.

Luckily, he was not so blind as to miss the reaction his brother had given. “Loki—I’m sorry.” He dropped his horse back behind Tyr and Loki, then came around to Loki’s side and reached out for his arm. “I’m _sorry._ ”

“You’ll need to learn to think before you speak, Thor, if you are to be a better brother to my foster son,” said Tyr. “And it will serve you well someday when you are king, as well. Call it the beginnings of wisdom, hm?”

“Yes, weaponsmaster.”

* * *

They said little else on the ride across Idavoll; Loki seemed to be content with the silence, lost in thought or else gazing across the valley at Vingólf, her ancient watchtowers just visible through the trees from this angle. Every now and again he would tear his gaze away and glance at Tyr apprehensively, or sort through the tokens hanging off his saddle and pick one to fidget with.

Tyr thought briefly of asking after the boy’s wellbeing, but decided ultimately to let him be; it might not do to call attention to his nervousness in front of an audience, and here in the quiet, with the cohort leaders escorting the wagons nearby, anything Tyr said would certainly be overheard. Best not to risk embarrassing him.

On the other hand… as they began the long climb up to Vingolf, he reached out to tap Loki’s shoulder lightly, pulling him from his thoughts. _Status?_ , he signaled.

Loki’s eyes turned up at the corners a little. _Nothing new to report._

“You’ve had more practice using those signals than I would have expected for your age group,” said Tyr.

Thor chuckled. “Loki likes codes and secret languages,” he said. “When we were children, Father brought us to the training grounds one day and the soldiers were practicing their hand signals as they fought. My brother was fascinated and by the end of the week had convinced someone to begin teaching him. We would use the signs so that we could go exploring the palace after our bedtime, or trade messages back and forth during our lessons, without getting caught.”

“Impressive,” said Tyr, and above the silk sash, Loki blushed a little.

Thor puffed up with pride. “He even made up new signs that the soldiers would not have need of,” he said. “And looked up the really obscure signals that no one uses anymore.”

“Loki, is this true?” Tyr was positively intrigued.

The boy glanced at him, trying to read the expression on his face, and nodded.

“And would you say it is a full-fledged language now, rather than a quick code? Does it possess grammar, or a means to speak in different tenses?”

Loki thought for a moment, then shrugged and nodded again.

Tyr nodded in turn, though more to himself than to the boy. There were applications for Loki’s signs, and depending on how elaborate the language, he just might have some people Loki could instruct in it. “Most impressive indeed,” he said thoughtfully. “You have a reputation for cleverness, but I think this may well exceed even what people say about you.”

Loki looked down again, and away.

“What is it?”

The boy glanced at him briefly, then turned toward Thor and flashed his hands in a rapid series of signals, only a few of which Tyr could read.

“My brother says that most of what people say about him is not kind, so it is not a surprise that his deeds surpass their words.”

Tyr blinked. “He said all that?”

Thor smiled, and Loki turned back to face Tyr. More slowly, he signaled, _Many troops, Ill tidings, Action complete, More, Stealth, Nothing new to report._ Then he repeated the sequence, adding in the signs that he must have invented.

“Impressive,” he said again. Louder, he added, “I would disagree with your interpretation, however. I am nearly certain, given what I have seen, that within the palace Odin has worked to undermine your reputation and curtail your own expressions of your intelligence, but I do not spend most of my time among the courtiers. I admit I do not know you well yet, Loki, but I do know that you have a reputation for cleverness, without negative conditions attached to it. This, what you have done here with these signs, surpasses even the praise I have heard people bestow upon you. And the thought that you created all this while still a child is… I suspect that your mind is a rare gift, Loki. I will be honored to see what is inside it, whenever you choose to show it.”

He heard Loki take a sharp, deep breath as he dropped his gaze to his hands. _Acknowledged,_ the sign Loki had used earlier for “thank you”, flicked out quickly before the boy ducked his head again.

“Here,” said Tyr, taking pity on the boy’s sudden shyness, “our halls are in sight—or at least, those that lie beyond the ring. On the left, there, is perhaps the oldest temple in Asgard, said to have been built by Buri’s own hands. He created the shrine to offer thanks to the Norns, after finding this land, driving out the beasts and demons that dwelled here, and making it safe for his people to settle in.”

 _Staff?_ asked Loki.

“The Volur determine who lives there at any given time,” Tyr replied. “Sometimes there is only one völva, on a meditative retreat. Other times I have seen a priestess and up to six acolytes, training perhaps in their mysteries. As you might imagine, they don’t see much reason to tell _me_ their secrets.”

_Avoid?_

“No, you may visit it if you wish, provided you have their permission. It’s customary at this particular shrine for visitors to bring a gift of some sort, out of respect for the Norns.”

Loki nodded.

They continued up the hillside, through several switchbacks, while Tyr pointed out orchards, or the homes of various vassals that dwelled along the roadside; the groundskeepers and huntsmen, primarily. When they were high enough, and on the other side of the hill from Idavoll, he was able to point down and show them the Hvítáfljót, leaping over the rocks nearby, and gleaming in the sun in the valley below.

Finally they rounded the last curve, and there she was: “Vingólf, the old dirt pile,” Tyr said affectionately.

“I thought you said this was once a royal palace,” protested Thor.

“Oh, she was. And I love and admire every inch of her, never you fear. But the courtiers tend to turn up their noses when they see the old architecture: the outer earthwork here, and then inside, the wood and stone instead of the gleaming gold of Gladsheim. Luckily I don’t generally give a damn what the courtiers think.” Tyr nodded up at the entryway, arched to a point like the overturned hull of an ancient ship, making an imposing mouth for the main tunnel through the earthwork ring and into the complex proper. “They say the carvings were done by hand, with seidr only to sharpen the blades and ensure the details would not wear away over the centuries. Every once in a while, I will receive visitors who wish to study the runes carved into the structure at various points.”

“Truly?” said Thor. Tyr looked across at the two brothers and saw that Loki looked fascinated, while Thor seemed more idly curious and willing to speak on his brother’s behalf.

“They represent some of the oldest magic in Asgard, same as the shrine,” said Tyr. “People with an interest in such things, be it the magic itself or merely the history, sometimes request permission to examine what remains here.”

A thought occurred to him, then. “I imagine the two of you have explored nearly every passage of Gladsheim by now,” he said; “Loki, congratulations: you now have an entire new palace to burrow into and become part of. I look forward to you telling me what secrets you uncover.”

“Are there any secrets left?” asked Thor, and this time he sounded a bit more than idly curious, himself.

“Place as ancient as this? Of course,” said Tyr.

He did not miss the conspiratorial look the two boys shared; if Loki’s mouth weren’t covered, Tyr was sure they would be grinning at each other. Good. The boy would be welcome here, Tyr had no fear of the reception he’d receive from the inhabitants of Vingolf, but he’d been too traumatized and overwhelmed for much of the day to really think about this sudden move in any positive way. If the thought of exploring the old dirt pile was what had Loki looking forward to living here, that was all to the good as far as Tyr was concerned.

* * *

They passed under the archway, through the tunnel, and into the courtyard, and Tyr spotted Hoenir waiting for them. Standing next to him was an older dwarf Tyr did not recognize—only one, though; the messenger had said Hoenir would have two guests. Hmm.

“Good afternoon, masters,” Hoenir called, as the wagons pulled to a halt and the cohort leaders began dismounting around them.

“Hoenir,” Tyr answered calmly. “Thor, help your brother if you would.” He kept an eye as Loki resumed his theater, waiting to dismount until Thor was there to guide him. Loki leaned against his horse in seeming fatigue for a moment before reaching up to collect the various trinkets and tokens still draped across his saddle horn and over the horse’s neck; Thor reached for the bundle that Frigga had given him, but Loki clutched it close.

Finally Tyr dismounted, and stepped across to where Hoenir and his companion waited.

“May I present Hrodi of Nidavellir,” said Hoenir. The dwarf bowed and saluted after the fashion of his people; the status charms braided into his gray-streaked beard, signifying wealth and various honors, clinked against one another softly.

“As your lord Hoenir is assistant to the great General Tyr,” he saidin a thick accent, “so am I, Hrodi, assistant to the great General Dvalin. I bear tidings on his behalf and on behalf of great Hreidmarr, King Under Twelve Mountains and Ruler of Nidavellir.”

“Be welcome then, Lord Hrodi,” said Tyr, and the dwarf bowed again. He spotted Loki, eying him with trepidation, and bowed lower with another, more formal salute. “Great Prince, Son of Odin, called Loki, are you not? I bring profound apology on behalf of my king. What has been, should not have been. Great Hreidmarr declares you blameless in this affair, for he knows Brokkr and Eitri of old. They will be punished for their crime.”

Loki froze, staring for a moment until Thor whispered something in his ear; then he seemed to shake himself, blinking rapidly, and offered the same formal salute that Hrodi had given. Tyr wondered if he was just that good of a mimic, or if he had taken the time to learn the dwarfs’ customs before traveling to Nidavellir. From what he’d seen so far of the boy, it really could be either one.

Hrodi gave a pleased smile before turning back to Tyr. “If we might speak privately, great General,” he said.

“As soon as I have settled my foster-son into his new home,” said Tyr, “I shall be happy to confer with you. Hoenir, if you would—”

He was interrupted by a noise of distress, coming from Loki. He was standing over one of the wagons, piled with flowers and trinkets, which the cohort leaders had begun to sweep off of Loki’s belongings and onto the ground.

“My son? What is it?”

Loki’s hands moved rapidly, and Tyr could barely make out _Acquire, Supply,_ and _Perimeter_ as they darted and flashed like startled fish.

“My brother says that he wishes to keep these things; they carry… blessings?” Loki nodded. “They are blessed, and he wishes to make a… perimeter with them. Loki, those signs do not make much sense, am I—” but Loki nodded again.

“I believe I know what His Highness wishes,” said Hoenir as he stepped forward. “All these things were given as gestures of sincere goodwill, were they not?”

“Indeed,” said Tyr, as Loki nodded emphatically.

“Then they carry a tiny bit of magic of their own,” Hoenir explained. “Blessing magic. And if I understand His Highness correctly, he wishes them to be scattered about the boundaries of Vingólf, to bless his new home.”

Loki bowed, and signed his thanks.

“I shall see that it is done, young master,” said Hoenir, “with your permission, of course, my lord.”

“I’ll not refuse a blessing on my house and all who dwell in it,” said Tyr, “no matter how tiny, as you say, it might be. Gentlemen,” he went on, turning toward the cohort leaders, “follow Hoenir’s instructions if you would. First with this perimeter magic—Hoenir, do you need Loki for this, or can he rest?—very good—and then with unpacking His Highness’s belongings. You all followed instructions quite well while preparing to leave the palace; I trust you will give Hoenir the same respect you have given me and His Highness.”

* * *

Tyr and Hrodi went inside, with Loki and Thor right behind them; Loki staggered dramatically and Hrodi looked over his shoulder, a worried expression on his face.

“The great prince shall be well?”

“He shall,” said Tyr. “His injuries were quite painful, and the experience has left him exhausted. He is not yet fully-grown, you see.”

Hrodi shook his head, frowning so severely he seemed almost to scowl. “Yes, Lord Hoenir told me what has been. Vile.” He shook his head again, and glanced up at the general. “You call him son?”

Tyr shrugged. Let the other realms hear of this; politically it could be a disaster for both Odin and Asgard, but Tyr was angry enough at the All-Father to welcome a little war, just now, where he might safely vent that rage. “His father allowed this to happen, and I formally objected. By our traditions, I have made Loki my foster-son. He is still a prince,” he added, seeing the question in Hrodi’s eyes, “but he will not be part of Odin’s household from this day forward.”

Hrodi’s eyes gleamed. Perhaps he thought that Tyr did not realize the implications of what he’d just said, or perhaps he thought Tyr’s loyalty to his king was no longer quite so steadfast as it had always been.

Tyr’s loyalty to Asgard would never waver, no matter what Hrodi might like to think. As for his loyalty to Odin, well, perhaps the Thing would determine an answer to that tonight.

* * *

Tyr had a servant take the dwarf the rest of the way to his study, while he escorted Loki and Thor up the stairs and to the private wing of the palace. Vingólf did not soar into the sky the way Gladsheim did, as it was more defensible if it kept itself safely behind the earthworks; here on the second floor, the ceilings all arched to a point the way the entry tunnel had. There were carvings visible on the support beams every few paces. Several had complicated runes worked into them, and while Hoenir had told him the meanings of several, he looked forward to Loki’s interpretations over many dinners and games of tafl to come.

“Here,” he said finally, opening one door. Inside, servants were still airing the room and placing fresh linens on the bed; they all stopped when Loki and Thor entered.

“I assume Hoenir has told you that I have taken another foster-son,” Tyr said to the gathered servants. There were various sounds of affirmation, and Tyr nodded. “Here is His Highness, Loki Odinsson-Tyrsson. He has expressed a preference to arrange most of his belongings himself, with only his brother’s assistance. Once he is free to speak again, I am sure he will appreciate it if you introduce yourselves.”

There were more curtseys and bows, and Tyr let them return to their work. He, Thor, and Loki waited and watched while the servants finished up and took themselves off, and when the rooms were emptied, Tyr turned to the boy and said, “They will see to your needs as they do mine. Simply tell them your preferences as far as waking early or late, having an attendant at bath, that sort of thing.”

Loki nodded, and Tyr looked past him to see that the door was shut. “Do you require a rest, anything to drink before your things come up?” he asked quietly.

Loki shook his head. _Wait,_ he signed.

“Fair enough. Thor, you will remain here and mind your brother. Do whatever he asks, and mind your _tongue_ , do you understand? Do not spill Loki’s secrets for him, or I shall thrash you personally—his life could very well depend on it. Am I clear?”

“Yes, weaponsmaster.” Thor’s eyes were a little wide—no doubt his royal person had never been threatened with physical violence before outside the training grounds—but he nodded vigorously and Tyr could hope that the message would stick.

“Very good.” To reassure the boy, he clapped a hand onto his shoulder and gave a little squeeze. “You’ve done well protecting your brother so far this afternoon; you need only keep it up. As for the two of you together, try not to waste time as you settle, but do not feel obligated to rush. We have a few hours yet before the Thing, and I have business to attend to.”

Business that awaited him in his study, so with another quick pat to each of their shoulders, Tyr turned and made his way back down the corridor to the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In mythology, Vingolf is the home of the twelve goddesses of Asgard, and Gladsheim is the home of the twelve gods. They all meet at Yggdrasil, the tree in the center of Idavoll, each day to hold court over the affairs of mankind.
> 
> I, uh, shamelessly ripped off the names and ran with my own notion instead. It's fic, I can do that.
> 
> My version of Vingolf is, however, laid out in a somewhat similar fashion to historic Viking ring fortresses, which consisted of a perfectly circular earthwork, bisected by two roads that crossed at a perfect 90-degree angle in the center, and in which were generally sixteen Viking longhouses laid out as four squares in the quarters of the circle. My palace is considerably larger than that, so the interior pattern won't be the same, but it gives you a bit of an idea. My Vingolf is _old_.
> 
> Oh lord I'm such a geek.
> 
> Thanks for your patience while I worked through NaNoWriMo, putting together perhaps the first third to half of another big long fic. _WHY_ can't I write short stories anymore??


	11. Plans and Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyr speaks to many people, preparing for the Thing later this evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter than usual, but hopefully still satisfying. This one is all about the antici............pation.

“Thank you for seeing me, great General,” said Hrodi, as Tyr entered.

“The honor is mine,” Tyr replied. They passed through the little formalities, a series of lengthy greetings that were considered essential in polite dwarfish society: asking after the health of host and guest and their families, the offer and acceptance of drinks accompanied by wishes for prosperity on one another’s house, and so forth.

Finally, pleasantries aside, Hrodi pulled a pair of scrolls from a pouch sitting at his feet. He passed the first scroll over, in an elaborate case of black enamel chased with gold filigree, and gold caps on the ends; from the caps dangled delicate chains holding various charms, coins, and other insignia of Nidavellir’s royal house. “I bring official word from great King Hreidmarr, concerning the fate of two of his subjects…” The second scroll case was blue, with black and silver inlays depicting a sort of badger-like creature. The chains dangling from the caps each held sharp black claws whose tips had been dipped in silver. “…and _less_ -official word, merely from my master, who coincidentally _happens_ to be the great General Dvalin.”

Tyr raised his eyebrow at the phrasing, and proceeded to read the king’s scroll. It was disappointing, at first glance; the king had a vested interest in protecting all his subjects, whether they be at home or on other realms, and could not condone harm coming to them for any reason. There was a preemptive demand that wergild would have to be paid, presuming that Asgard had done anything already to Hreidmarr’s subjects.

On the other hand, the king also said very clearly that he did not wish for war between Asgard and Nidavellir, and implied that once wergild was paid, Nidavellir would be satisfied with whatever had happened to their loyal subjects.

Tyr wrote a comparatively short note in return, conveying his thanks to the king for his response, and Tyr’s continued wishes for peace between the two realms. Hrodi waited patiently, sipping his drink, while Tyr folded the packet and sealed it, then passed it over.

Then he opened Dvalin’s scroll, and read it. It was much lengthier than the king’s had been, in less formal but no less clear language, and went into some truly interesting detail.

Tyr read it twice.

“My master tells me that you have his permission to utilize this document in whatever way seems fitting to you, to conduct business of benefit to both our realms,” said Hrodi.

Well, well.

“Hrodi,” asked Tyr, leaning back in his seat thoughtfully, “what were your intentions as regards the length of your visit today? Are you required to return to your lord immediately, or might you be able to stay for the Thing and escort your fellow citizens home afterward?”

“You honor me with the invitation to attend such a prestigious gathering, great General,” said Hrodi. “I am sure it would please my lord and my liege if I were permitted to remain. It would make my report to them later all the more complete.”

“Very good,” said Tyr. “In that case, once Hoenir has completed his task, I will entrust you to his company, provided you are both willing, while I complete a bit of further business before we must depart.”

“Of course, great General. I find that your assistant was pleasant company on the travel to your hall. We share much in common, thanks to our work.”

Tyr allowed a smile to cross his face. “I can well imagine.”

“While he is occupied, however, perhaps I might rest, if you permit it? It was nightfall on Nidavellir when your messages came, and is quite late now. I would prefer to be fresh for your Thing later.”

“You are a guest in my halls, Hrodi of Nidavellir; all that you need will be provided.”

* * *

 

 Tyr was reading Dvalin’s scroll for a third time when he heard a tap at the door of his study. “Ah, there you are, my lord,” said Hoenir, stepping inside.

“Your perimeter magic went smoothly, I take it?” asked Tyr.

“Quite so. And stronger than I expected, even given that we kept back the charms and pendants and used only the cast flowers for the spell. I thought His Highness might like them for keepsakes.”

“Mm.” Tyr nodded; he didn’t know the first thing about seidr really, but he was still unsurprised by the news. “That boy has more support than he realizes, I think.”

“Or you do, my lord,” said Hoenir astutely, and Tyr grimaced a little.

“There were people offering me _and_ the boy their swords as we left the capital,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll have to do something about that before it gets out of hand.”

“Perhaps the All-Father has finally pushed too far?” suggested Hoenir, taking a seat and the cup of wine Tyr poured for him.

“That’s not my place to say,” said Tyr quickly, then stopped. “Or, I would not have believed so before today. Damn. The boy has suffered because I kept my mouth shut, but how many others have done the same?”

“Perhaps they were afraid to speak out?”

“More like they were eager to curry the All-Father’s favor, and entertain themselves besides, by joining in the abuse of someone of a higher rank than they. You heard them at the court this morning; laughing and whispering while a boy was tortured right in front of them.” Tyr sneered in disgust, losing his taste for his own wine. He set the cup aside and changed the subject. “The message from Heimdall said you would bring two guests with you; where is the other? And for that matter, who is it?”

“Ah. Yes,” Hoenir said with a nod. “Heimdall overheard you talking with the young master about having me arrange to speak to a seidr tutor for him, and was kind enough to pass the message along since I was standing right there. As it happens, I have an old friend who would be ideal to instruct the young master; he has lived on Vanaheim for many centuries now, so I sent word to him. To shorten my report: He arrived, we spoke, he agreed, then he returned to Vanaheim to collect his belongings. Heimdall’s messenger, however, left while my friend was still here.”

“I see.” Tyr scrubbed his knuckles across his beard. “And when might we expect to see him?”

“If all goes well, my lord, he hopes to be here in time for the Thing. But apparently he intends to stay with us for quite some time, as His Highness will, so he has more to pack than simply a bit of luggage.”

“Fair enough,” said Tyr. He collected his wine again and lifted it to his lips. “And might I have the name of your old friend, to pass along to Loki?”

“He is called Mimir, my lord,” Hoenir said, and grinned widely when Tyr choked on his wine.

“That was not funny,” said Tyr when he could breathe again.

“Forgive me,” said Hoenir, still chuckling a little. “It wasn’t my intent to cause you to inhale your wine. But I must say, if this is your reaction just to hearing his name, what do you think will be the response when he walks into the Thing this evening, and stands beside Loki?”

Tyr thought about that, and this time his smile showed teeth. “Tonight is shaping up to be very interesting indeed, old friend.”

“It is my pleasure to serve. You know that.”

“Aye, I do.” Tyr thought for a moment, planning his strategy for the evening. “Visit the boys in Loki’s chambers and see that they are getting along all right. Let him know that he need not cover his face anymore, then spread the word through the household that we were gifted enchanted blades by no less than Völund the Smith himself, and that His Highness is free of the stitches now.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“Hmm. Perhaps have the Lady Runa introduce herself to His Highness, so that we can say he was seen by our healer. She will need to be informed of the reality of things, of course.”

“Of course.”

Tyr tapped his fingers against his lips, thinking. “Then ask Loki to come and see me after they have spoken.”

“Will that be all, my lord?”

“Mm. Finish your wine, first. I know how your joints ache after a long ride.”

“Ah, my lord, that is why I borrowed a skiff instead, which is also how I was able to arrive here before you, despite having the longer journey.” Hoenir smiled, and lifted his cup. “Yet I appreciate your thoughtfulness, as always.” 

* * *

 

“You wanted to see me?”

Tyr looked up from the notes he was making to see Loki glancing around tentatively. “Ah. Come in. Have you eaten anything recently?”

“Yes, sir. Lady Runa was… insistent.”

“Heh. I’m sure she was.” Vingólf, like Gladsheim, had a city built up around it, though nothing half so large as the capital; Runa served Tyr’s hall, leading the healing wing that provided care to the rest of the city, in the same capacity that Lady Eir served the royal palace. “She trained under the Lady Eir, you know.”

“I could sort of tell,” said Loki, taking his seat when Tyr waved him in. “We’re saying that the enchanted blade came from Völund the Smith, instead of Gungnir? And Lady Runa healed the… the damage?”

“Yes, for now,” said Tyr. “The events of the story remain essentially true, only the sources are obscured for the time being. I do not want you to have to travel to the Thing and still be unable to speak.”

Loki looked startled at that. “I—you want me to attend the Thing? I’m not of age, I—”

“Be at ease, Loki, I don’t expect you to speak in your own defense. I will do that, as is my duty and privilege,” he added, as Loki blinked, nonplussed. Well, they had only a few hours to get to know one another, after all, it would take time for Loki to really trust him consistently. “But I do not want you at any unfair disadvantage, and you have a right to hear the discussion, since you were one of the major parties involved.”

“They may try to say that since I recovered so quickly, Asgard doesn’t have anything to complain about,” said Loki.

“In which case I will call on every adult who was present during court to testify as to how you suffered,” growled Tyr. Loki visibly tensed, and seemed to be fighting not to shrink back in his chair; Tyr took a deep breath with his eyes shut, and blew it out slowly. “I have told you several times, Loki, and I will tell you again until you believe it: One, I am not angry with you. Two, if I were angry with you, I would _say so_ , not attack you out of hand.” He opened his eyes to see Loki watching him carefully. “I know you have little cause to trust me as yet, but can you trust that, at least?”

“I… Yes, sir,” said the boy. “But that’s—that’s not entirely true. I mean… you are giving me cause to trust you, I just—” He turned his head away, then looked at his hands in his lap. “I’m something of a coward, I guess.”

“I know for a fact that that is not true,” Tyr assured him. “You have been trained to fear adult men, with good cause. That fear is a form of battle-memory, if it helps you to see it that way. It will take time to overcome that training, and you will never forget it completely. But you will come away from it with a healthy sense of caution, and an ability to assess a threat quickly, for your own safety. You will be wiser, for what you have endured, and though I regret that you have endured it, that wisdom is no bad thing.”

Loki thought about that for a moment, before saying cautiously, “I suppose, if I have to—to have bad things happen, it makes sense to try and pull good things from them, where I can.”

Tyr smiled. “Wiser, indeed.”

Loki ducked his head again, but this time he seemed to be blushing.

“Speaking of bad things, however,” Tyr said gently, watching as Loki sobered, “I am trying to amass as much information as I possibly can, prior to the Thing. I am afraid I must ask for the full story, from your perspective, of what happened on Nidavellir, as well as the events that led up to your going there in the first place.”

Loki positively scowled.

“I will remind you that I don’t have plans to punish you for any of this, my son—” he began, but Loki actually interrupted him.

“You will. Everyone else thinks it was my fault, you will too.”

Tyr tipped his head, raising one eyebrow as Loki subsided to sullen silence. “How about you let me decide that, hm?”

Loki said nothing.

“You’re not accustomed to having allies, are you, boy?” Tyr realized, and Loki looked up in surprise. “I told you this before: I cannot give you what you need if I do not know who you are. I also promised you truth, and requested that you give me the same in return. Do you recall?”

“…I do. Sir.”

“Very well, then. I know that you are not accustomed to such things, and that I ask much of you, but even so: please trust me.” He let Loki study his expression, searching for deception that wasn’t there, and then said, “Will you tell me what happened?”

It took a moment, but softly, hesitantly, Loki did.

* * *

Tyr waited until Loki had left, just as hesitantly as he’d come in, before venting just the smallest amount of the anger he had been trying very, very hard to suppress.

Luckily, he had a wooden target hanging near the fireplace for just that purpose, and a set of well-used throwing hatchets to hand. Each one tore chunks of wood from the target with each throw, and it gave Tyr great satisfaction to watch the splinters fly. Tyr threw, then stepped over to retrieve them, then threw again; several times, until the target finally split in half and fell to the floor.

He swept the smaller pieces into the fire, and tossed what remained of the target into the hod for later; he was just brushing the dust and splinters off when there was a tap at his door.

A servant, not Hoenir, opened it and peeked inside. “Is everything well, my lord?” she asked, and there was a corner of Tyr’s mind that noted her lack of fear with pride.

“Well enough for the time being, Astrid, thank you,” he said with a sigh.

“My lord will be wanting a fresh target, I presume?”

Tyr scrubbed his hands through his hair and sat at his desk once more. “Aye, and also a messenger, if you would, Astrid.”

“At once, my lord.”

He sent the messenger out with two tasks: first, to contact the father of Sif and make sure he would attend the Thing, and politely request that he bring his daughter with him; second, a missive to Forseti, to look into the specifics of the law concerning shield maidens in Asgard, since the Aesir-Vanir war ended.

Tyr may not be much of a politician, but he was a strategist; and he might not be a professional advocate before the law, but he did know how to put together a report, or establish a case for or against a soldier at court-martial. There was research to dig into, and notes to compile, and an argument to structure… none of which were all that different from planning a battle before the war. Easier, in fact, because most battle plans did not survive the first engagement, while most arguments did at least keep their general shape.

This was an offensive that Tyr was damned well going to win.

* * *

“From the All-Father,” said the messenger when he returned, handing over a small packet sealed with gold, along with a reply from Lord Vandrad, Sif’s father, and a weathered-looking scroll from Forseti.

Tyr dismissed him and opened Odin’s packet first. It was as he expected, an announcement that Odin would be stopping by Vingólf later in the evening, after the Thing was concluded. Tyr had wondered when he would receive the word, and was only surprised it hadn’t come sooner.

The king and the general had known one another for millennia, and as it happened, being king meant that Odin had very few people near enough to him in rank that he could afford to drop his guard, or his royal persona, and simply be Odin Borsson. Their differences in rank meant that Tyr could never quite call himself Odin’s friend—and after today he would not have wanted to, in any case—but they had gotten together multiple times over the centuries, quietly, unofficially, to share strong drink and occasionally strong opinions.

These meetings always took place at Vingólf. The palace was home to the All-Father, and official business was conducted there. For all things unofficial and informal, Odin Borsson came here instead.

All the things that Tyr wanted to shout at the All-Father, and the occasional punch he wanted to throw, could be directed at Odin Borsson without fear of reprisal. It was their unspoken agreement, and it had kept the kingdom running smoothly ever since they had first implemented it. Occasionally even the highest-ranking, most powerful men needed to be told they were being a damned fool, and Odin was at least wise enough to know that he needed someone who could tell him that with impunity. That he trusted Tyr to be that person was… an honor, perhaps. Or a burden; Tyr saw it as neither. It was simply a facet of his life and his long acquaintanceship with the king, a duty he recognized and bore with equanimity.

So. The All-Father would attend the Thing, and afterward Odin Borsson would come to Vingólf to growl and snarl about it.

Tyr mentally shrugged. He still wasn’t getting anywhere near Loki, no matter what he might demand in the dark of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is a little unorthodox: I work from home, and I get very bored during the day. If you would like to chat with me via Google Hangouts, feel free to contact me privately (either via FFnet or through Tumblr ask/fan mail/messaging). Right now Shi_Toyu and I do this, and just trade commentary on fic, or on our jobs, or what have you; we wouldn't mind adding more people to the group. Want to keep us company? Come say hello. (It, uh, goes without saying that you need Google Hangouts in order to participate.) (You can mute the chat notifications if you're actually busy and have a life and stuff, unlike me.)


	12. Thing part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Thing begins; an unbiased judge is requested, and reveals himself.

It was precisely sunset when Tyr and his entourage arrived for the Thing—a good omen, according to tradition, though they were far from the only ones to arrive at that time. Several lords and ladies were already present, including a half-dozen law speakers that Tyr recognized, plus another half-dozen or so volur gathered like crows on one side of the seating.

The thingstead was symbolically placed at the heart of Asgard, the very center of the Idavoll plain, near an ash tree that had been planted to represent Yggdrasil itself. Its gnarled branches spread wide, but not quite wide enough to shelter the entire Thing, so the people met in a natural amphitheater near it: a little pocket valley called Thingvellir that may have originally been carved from the living bedrock, but was now worn so smooth, and so covered in long grasses and moss, that it was impossible to tell for certain.

Tyr and Loki traveled side-by-side, Loki with his mouth uncovered but his hood up for the time being. They were not exactly traveling in stealth; the boy's armor still made obvious who he was. Just behind them, as guests of Tyr's household, were Thor and Hrodi, looking resplendent in their formal attire; the charms in Hrodi's beard glinted in the fading sunlight on the plain and the torchlight illuminating the thingstead. Next in line were Hoenir and an older man with deep-set eyes and craggy features, which were only partially covered by a relatively short beard. Though his beard was still streaked with iron gray, his hair was mostly white, and he wore it in a braid that reached to the middle of his back.

"Hoenir tells me he has already given you my name," he had said when he and Tyr first met. "I would appreciate it if you did not use it, nor introduce me to your foster son as yet. I shall introduce myself, at the Thing, when the time seems right."

"Fair enough, seidmadr," Tyr had replied. Like Hoenir, the sorcerer was dressed simply, in sturdy traveling garb in browns and grays; he carried a staff nearly as tall as he was, of some polished wood with a spiraling grain. Tyr wondered if it was a magical tool, or if he just carried it for dramatic effect; for a man supposedly a good deal older than Odin, he certainly moved well enough on his own, without needing a crutch to lean on.

As they approached Thingvellir, he, too, pulled his hood up to obscure his features, so that only his beard was readily visible.

Odin and his party, including the dwarfs and the queen, arrived only a few minutes later. Tyr caught Loki giving furtive glances out from the cover of his hood toward them, and rubbing his fingertips together nervously.

"Sit with me, Loki, and do not worry yourself over them," he said quietly. "The Thing is not court. No man may lay violent hands upon another here, no matter their rank, nor the quarrel between them."

"I know. I… Does he look angry to you?"

"Heh. No more so than usual," Tyr said, just to see the quick flash of teeth in the growing darkness as Loki smiled. "You will be fine. You're not expected to speak on your own behalf, remember. All you need do is watch and listen, and correct me if I say anything that is not true."

"Yes, sir."

If anything, Odin seemed more annoyed that Thor was sitting with Tyr and Loki, rather than taking his proper place by Odin's side as prince, or staying home as a not-yet-grown man should, than he did over Loki's presence. Tyr wondered if he'd already dismissed the boy from his heart and mind, since it had been so easy for him to be cruel to Loki earlier. How much regard must he truly hold for the boy, and how easy would it be to cast it aside now that he was Tyr's?

Frigga was watching their interactions as much as Tyr, and she leaned over and whispered something in Odin's ear that made him scowl. Still, he looked away and muttered something to one of the servants who attended everyone at the Thing, and did not look Loki's way again.

Men and women of all ranks gathered, and took their seats in the grassy amphitheater, as night fell. Soon the only light came from tall torches set into the ground around the edges of the valley and marking the ends of each row, and the only sounds were the murmur of voices and the noise of crickets and other insects, beyond the bounds of the thingstead.

Finally, Forseti, chief law speaker and arbiter of Asgard, stood and made his way down the ramp and into the open, oval area before them, which served as a stage for everyone who wished to speak. In the center there was a spot where the ground was hollowed out beneath the stone, making a natural sound box; Forseti bore a staff, and he pounded it onto the hollow, making it echo across the plain.

Three sets of three strikes, one for each of the Nine Realms, and the people fell silent.

"We are gathered… hastily, on this night," said Forseti, "in response to events which took place in the court of the All-Father this morning, between the dwarfs, Brokkr and Eitri, and His Highness Loki, second prince of Asgard. His Highness is yet underage; is there someone to speak on his behalf?"

"Aye," said Tyr, standing. All eyes turned to him. "I am Tyr Hymirsson, chief general of Asgard, and foster father to His Highness. I will speak on his behalf."

Forseti nodded. "You were the one to call for a Thing to be convened?"

"I was."

"What are the questions you wish to put before those here assembled?"

Tyr reached down and took a leather pouch that Hoenir passed him, then made his way down to the stage. "There are two questions," he said, falling easily into his parade ground voice: slow, clear, and loud enough to be heard even without the natural shape of the amphitheater throwing his voice. "First, whether the dwarfs, Brokkr and Eitri of Nidavellir, did wrongfully attack a prince of Asgard without just cause; second, whether Asgard ought to go to war with Nidavellir to avenge the harm done to one of our own." He swept his gaze over every man and woman present, and saw only attentive expressions, with not a sneer or smirk among them. "There is no need to question whether or not the attack took place, as all who were at the All-Father's court this morning were able to witness it themselves."

The crowd murmured and nodded, and the dwarfs glanced at one another nervously.

"Did not the All-Father permit this as punishment for Loki's crimes?" asked someone about halfway up. "If that is the case, then Loki received justice, rather than being attacked, and the case cannot go forward."

"Is justice meted out by foreigners, in the court of Asgard?" Tyr countered calmly. "And was Loki's crime committed against Asgard? The answer to both those questions is 'no,' assuming Loki even committed a crime at all."

Another law speaker, one of Forseti's colleagues, nodded and spoke. "If His Highness committed some wrong against the people of Nidavellir, then Nidavellir should have punished him themselves, or demanded his return to their world for trial with fair representation. If he committed some wrong against Asgard, then Aesir should have been the ones to administer his punishment."

"In either case," Tyr gave an exaggerated shrug, so that everyone could see it, "His Highness is not on trial here; the dwarfs who attacked him are."

"I see you have a dwarf in your party," said Odin suddenly. "Is he here to speak in their defense, or to aid in yours?"

Hrodi stood. "Neither, All-Father," he said, his accent rolling off the surrounding hills. "I am here only to observe this gathering, and report the result of it to my lord and my liege. Whether Brokkr and Eitri are acquitted or executed, or receive any outcome in between, I will not interfere. This I do swear," he finished, making the formal salute Tyr had seen when he'd first arrived.

"Brokkr, Eitri, come forward," Forseti commanded.

The two dwarfs picked their way down to the stage, and one of them looked up at Loki with a sneer.

"Keep your eyes off my foster son," said Tyr in a low voice, "or I will pluck them out of your head and feed them to you."

The dwarf snapped around to look at Tyr in shock. "Do you threaten violence at your own Thing, man of Asgard?"

"Not at all," said Tyr. He smiled, slow and wolf-like. "I will wait until it is over, and you think yourselves safe, before I strike."

"He does not even wear our stitches anymore," said the second dwarf, loudly enough that the audience turned to look at Loki curiously. Tyr nodded, and the boy dropped his hood, holding his head high as he stared right back at them.

Brave lad.

"We were fortunate to be able to make use of an enchanted blade," said Tyr, "and remove the stitches with the aid of a healer, so that he bears no further injury from your handiwork. Do you recall when I warned you to either find or make something to take care of those stitches yourselves? Do you recall what I told you I would do to you if you did not meet that demand?"

"We have no forge here," said one of them, "and were forbidden from returning to Nidavellir."

"You cannot kill us here!" said the other, backing away.

"You're right, I cannot. This is the Thing, after all, and we have already established that you will come to no harm so long as we are gathered. But the fact that the stitches are already gone is the only reason I will permit you to live afterward."

The dwarfs began to shout, interrupting one another as they had in court, claiming what an outrage it was, declaring that they were being wrongfully threatened on foreign soil, and appealing to the All-Father to do something to stop his crazed servant from laying hands on them.

"Silence!" said Forseti, banging his staff again and startling the dwarfs. "You will respect the sanctity of these proceedings, or you will be removed. This is your only warning."

"The dwarfs have a point," said a woman in the audience, standing. "Tyr threatens violence against them for their wrongful attack, but we have not yet determined that it was wrongful."

"Loki is a prince of Asgard, to lay violent hands on him is wrongful by definition," said someone else.

"Yes, but what provoked it? He was not on Asgard when this incident occurred; technically he was not prince."

"You're splitting hairs, Yrsa," came the rejoinder. "He is a prince by blood; that does not change just because he is standing on a different patch of ground. And again, if he committed some crime in Nidavellir, then they should have punished him there. Unless they were trying to intimidate Asgard, which I think is unlikely."

Tyr spoke up before the argument could continue. "I have official correspondence from His Majesty, Hreidmarr, indicating that that is not the case," he said. He reached into his pouch, pulled out the black-enameled scroll case, and held it high; the charms danging from it caught the torchlight as the crowd murmured. Tyr watched in grim satisfaction as the dwarfs' faces fell. It looked as though Dvalin's intelligence about them had been correct. "But the question remains, as Yrsa pointed out: was this attack wrongful? I maintain that it was."

"Have you evidence or argument to support that claim?" asked one of the law speakers.

"I do."

"Proceed," said Forseti. "Brokkr and Eitri will be permitted to refute your argument, if they can."

Tyr hummed thoughtfully. "Before I speak, Lord Forseti, I would request that you and your fellow law speakers enforce the truth." Some members of the audience gasped, or did a double-take in surprise. "I am a man known for my honesty, yet I would give no one cause to doubt my words this evening. Further, I do not trust Brokkr and Eitri to speak honestly in their own defense."

Forseti nodded while the dwarfs sputtered, but he had successfully gotten them to behave themselves and they did not begin making demands again.

A few of the volur stood and made their way to the stage, stood in a ring around Tyr and the dwarfs, and began to chant. Tyr could not make out the words, but they seemed always just at the edge of understanding; he felt the hair on his arms stand up, then a faint blue glow began to outline the stones of the stage. Runes were illuminated, carved deep and half-hidden under moss and grass, and lines began to crisscross the stage between them. With a final shout, the volur stopped their chant, and the glow faded back somewhat, but not entirely. The overall effect made it seem as though the stage were lit with bright moonlight, blue even under the warmth of the torches surrounding them.

"You may begin," said the völva nearest him, as they moved to sit down. "You are not compelled to speak the truth, but should you attempt to lie, the light will change and all will be able to see it."

"So be it," intoned Forseti, and the audience repeated him in an echoing murmur. " _So be it._ "

"Loki was accused this morning, by the dwarfs, of losing a wager, or possibly forfeiting payment on the lost wager. In retribution, Brokkr and Eitri tortured him." Carefully not said: _with the All-Father_ _'s permission._ "What the dwarfs did not say was that Loki did not enter into that wager of his own free will, nor was he fully aware of the terms he agreed to. I have eyewitness reports from a reliable source in Nidavellir to confirm this, if anyone wishes to see them."

"The light remains blue, General Tyr," said Forseti. "You may continue."

He nodded. "Loki went to Nidavellir and legally, lawfully, and honestly obtained items from certain master craftsmen known as the Sons of Ivaldi. Ivaldi himself is a legend among dwarfish artisans, on par with our own Völund the Smith. He is aging, however, and has passed the bulk of the work commissioned to him to his sons to complete, reserving his own skill for masterpieces and works commanded by the king. To be frank, at this stage, only royalty from across the realms could afford the services of Ivaldi himself."

Nods all around; it seemed many people had heard of the smith.

"Loki, being pleased with his purchases, made the mistake of saying so where Brokkr and Eitri could overhear him. He did not approach them to make a wager; they approached him. They claimed that their skills were greater, and that they could craft more impressive wonders than the sons of Ivaldi. They enticed His Highness to agree to allow them to craft such things, and since he would not wager his purchases, they made him agree to bet his head against their skill."

Brokkr and Eitri folded their arms and raised their chins in a classic pose of sheer stubbornness; meanwhile, in the audience, people had begun to murmur quietly amongst themselves and to send speculative looks toward both Loki and the dwarfs. The law speakers themselves were watching with narrowed eyes and thoughtful frowns.

"According to my correspondence, after the items were completed, King Hreidmarr himself was brought in to judge, and he decreed that the sons of Ivaldi had crafted better than the brothers, Brokkr and Eitri. Angered, they demanded that His Highness pay for their work, and when he claimed, rightly, that he had not commissioned them, they demanded his head.

"Loki, is this correct so far?"

The boy stood, and smoothed his hands down his front nervously. "I swear that it is so," he said; at Tyr's nod, he sat back down.

"Brokkr and Eitri then traveled to Asgard and complained to the All-Father, who allowed them to punish Loki as all here witnessed this morning.

"But there is an entertaining little fact I discovered," Tyr went on, "a quirk of the differences between our languages. It turns out that to Loki, he was forced to wager his own flesh and blood, risking injury if he should lose his bet. To the people of Nidavellir, however, he wagered a specific sum of gold—quite a large sum, actually—known to them as a 'head'."

The Thing erupted into chaos, men and women standing and shouting. Loki's eyes were wide and Thor was leaning into him, saying something in his ear. Loki, for his part, leaned back just as hard, putting much of his weight onto his brother for support.

All this pain and suffering over a simple misunderstanding… if only it had been that.

"All this," Tyr shouted, catching everyone's attention once again, "all this because Brokkr and Eitri were _envious_ , and in their envy they decided that Loki's careless words were a boast and a challenge."

"They were a challenge," said one of the dwarfs. Tyr still couldn't be bothered to care which was which. "When Asgard's prince comes to Nidavellir, people heed his words."

The other dwarf smirked. "Not after today."

Thor leaped to his feet, and it took Loki and Hoenir both to pull him back down while Aesir around him shouted for blood.

"Enough!" Forseti's shout was backed by the thump of his staff on the hollow stone, so that it rang out and echoed loudly enough to have people clutching their ears in pain. "The Thing is a place of peaceful discussion, and has been so since time immemorial, and _any_ who cannot abide by that law will be made to leave!"

"This is exactly what these two pit-dwellers want of you," added Tyr. "To stir up strife. Do not let them drag you to their level."

"Our level?" rasped the dwarf who had taunted them before. "We are not the ones who refused to pay for our work!"

"You wagered your own pieces against the quality of the ones made by Ivaldi's sons," said Forseti. "If you lost, as you did, then no payment is owed. Your attacking the prince was an act of spite, no more."

"We lost because the king is biased against us," sneered the other dwarf. "Ivaldi licks his boots and is rewarded for it."

"I very much doubt that," said Tyr. "Yet if it will please you, we can find someone else to judge your work against theirs, and determine before everyone here assembled whether or not you had the right to claim any payment from His Highness, be it in blood or in gold."

"You are biased as well," said one dwarf.

"And not knowledgeable enough to understand the magnitude of the wonders we have crafted," sniffed the other.

"If a judge could be found who would satisfy you," asked Forseti, "would you submit to his ruling?"

The dwarfs narrowed their eyes and traded suspicious glances. "It would need to be a sorcerer, such as Asgard no longer possesses," said one.

"I do not see how a citizen of Asgard could possibly be unbiased," said the other.

"Would a citizen of Vanaheim do?" asked someone new. The people all turned to see who had spoken, and Tyr smiled as Mimir stood.

"Who are you?" asked Forseti.

The other man kept his hood up, and leaned on his staff. "I am a sorcerer of reasonable skill," he said, "and by coincidence or the will of the Norns, I came from Vanaheim earlier today to see about taking on a new student. Would my skill suffice?"

"You traveled with the general's party," said Yrsa. "How can we know that you are unbiased?"

"How can we know that you are skilled enough to speak to the quality of our work?" asked the dwarfs.

"This is a fair point," intoned Forseti. "Come forward, stranger, into the ring where truth is enforced, and tell us your qualifications."

The old man shrugged, and began making his way down the ramp between the rows of observers. "To answer the lady's question, I care little for Asgard, nor for political matters in general, these days. I did not come to this realm expecting to attend a Thing within hours of my arrival, and I will swear, if you wish, that I knew nothing of these matters before coming."

A few steps away from the edge of the stage, where runes still glimmered faintly, he pushed the hood of his cloak back. The long coil of his braid spilled out and down his back, and Tyr saw Odin straighten in his seat and lean forward, his good eye widening.

"As for my qualifications…" Mimir's boot landed on the very edge of the oval ring, and the runes flared to brilliant blue-white. A ringing chime filled the air in a three-note chord as if the very stones were singing, followed by a faint hissing as the magic the volur had placed _rearranged_ itself, writing new symbols on the stones, drawing a new configuration of lines back and forth between them, and crawling up the old man's clothing. Where it passed, the brown and gray clothing was transformed to white robes, with glowing blue symbols along the hem and cuffs, and shaping a stole that draped down his front. Even his staff lit briefly, a rich gold with scattered angular carvings near the top that glowed like embers.

When the chime faded, the thingstead was utterly silent; even the crickets had fallen still. Everyone, including the two dwarfs, and even the usually unflappable Forseti, was staring at the sorcerer with wide eyes.

Tyr risked a glance at Loki. The boy looked like he might faint.

Odin looked like he'd been stabbed.

"As for my qualifications, I am called Mimir," said the old man. "I trust that will suffice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I love grand entrances  
> 2\. I want fanart of that moment so bad I am about ready to teach myself how to do it  
> 3\. So far we are casting Mimir as Tommy Lee Jones with a beard - think that craggy face, the imperturbable personality of Agent K from Men In Black, and then add, like, white hair and more of a beard. If you can come up with someone better, please do!


	13. Thing, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of Mimir's history; the items crafted by the dwarfs are presented; Loki and Mimir are introduced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My kid has been home from school sick and I've been writing, so the updates are coming a little more quickly than usual right now. I hope you enjoy them!

_"As for my qualifications, I am called Mimir," said the old man. "I trust that will suffice."_

"Mimir is dead," said Odin, though his voice to those who knew him sounded unsteady. "He was sent to Vanaheim long ago."

"As a hostage at the end of the war, yes. In exchange for Freyr, whom you later sent to be king of Alfheim." Mimir raised one eyebrow, and clasped both hands around his staff. "It was supposed to be some sort of honor, as I was known even then for my wise counsel; the truth, of course, Borsson, was that you did not like what I had to say to you during that war, and found an honorable way to get rid of me without having me killed. When the Vanir learned of your releasing Freyr, they opted to free me and my friend Hoenir as well. He returned home to his loved ones. I chose to remain, as by that time I realized that, one, Vanaheim had been more of a home to me than Asgard ever was, and two, you, Odin, did not deserve the benefit of my counsel any longer."

The Thing murmured uncertainly, but the brightness of the light beneath the seidmadr's feet did not change.

"But Mimir was older than Odin, by more than two thousand years," said Yrsa. "How then, can you be he?"

Mimir gave half a laugh, but did not look all that amused. "I knew Odin scorned use of his own seidr, but it did not occur to me that he would enforce ignorance of the topic among his subjects."

"Please speak plainly," Forseti reminded him.

"Those of us who have seidr in our veins live longer, thanks to our connection to Great Yggdrasil," said Mimir. "Those few of us who give ourselves to it completely live a very long time indeed. I may be older than the All-Father in years, but physically I am probably now _younger_ than he."

Interesting; Tyr wondered if Odin had known that when Loki first showed an aptitude for magic, and if that had been part of the cause of his own contempt toward the boy.

"He is Mimir," spoke up one of the volur along the side of the stage. "The ring of truth-speaking runes which we activated were first placed here by him, in Bor's reign. No other could alter them as he has."

"The earth claims him," said another. She was kneeling with her hand on the ground. "The very stones say that a son of Asgard has returned at long last."

"Returned for what purpose?" Odin demanded. "You appear to hold no love for me. Should Asgard be concerned?"

"I already told you why I returned; I will be evaluating a prospective student, and possibly staying to teach him. If you were truly paying attention, Borsson, you will recall that I also said I care little for Asgard, nowadays. I am no threat to your kingship, though I do wonder why that would be the conclusion you would leap to."

"None of this is relevant to the questions put before tonight's Thing," said Forseti. "The current matter is whether or not to allow Mimir the Wise to judge these artifacts for their quality."

The murmuring of the assembled men and women grew louder, less uncertain, but faded when the dwarfs began speaking.

"He has altered the runes," one accused.

"He could lie and none could tell," said the other.

"Is that so," said Mimir. He sounded thoroughly unimpressed; Tyr approved. "Very well: I am not truly Mimir, called Wise, maternal uncle to Odin Borsson and his early teacher and counselor. I am a mere impostor and not at all qualified to judge the degree of skill of your works, dwarf craftsmen."

The runes and lines surrounding the stage flared red as soon as Mimir began his false assertion, and only grew brighter the longer he spoke.

"Your accusations do you no favors," said Forseti to the dwarfs, "given that they are unfounded, and you have already been exposed as willfully malevolent toward His Highness, when you exploited his and the All-Father's misunderstanding in order to do him physical harm."

"Do you wish me to judge your works compared to those of the sons of Ivaldi, or not?" asked Mimir. "I have better things to do with my time than stand here and quibble."

The dwarfs glared, but turned away to confer with one another for a moment. "You may judge," said one of them finally, though he still glared suspiciously at the old sorcerer.

"Bring forth the items," said Mimir. With a nervous glance at Thor, Loki stood, and he and Hoenir carried them down toward the stage. "Place them here," he said with a gesture, "that all may see them."

One by one they laid them out: an engraved arm-ring on the square of silk it had been wrapped in, and a wig of spun gold displayed on a dummy head, so fine it looked like real hair; the spear they had used earlier to cut Loki's stitches, and a heavy-looking mallet with runes carved into its head; a golden sculpture of a boar, life-sized and very lifelike, which actually walked down the ramp under its own power; and one final item that Tyr could not quite make out, made of many tiny slivers of wood bundled together into a piece the size of a thick packet of papers.

"Wait." Loki and Hoenir had just turned to go back to their seats. "Boy. Look at me."

Loki swallowed, but drew himself up tall and did as he was bidden.

Mimir stepped close and took his chin in one hand, and looked deeply into the boy's eyes. His eyebrows lifted as he blinked, apparently surprised, and he stepped back and made an odd gesture with both hands; a flaring cloud of green-gold light erupted around Loki, enveloping him from head to toe, and bright enough to nearly obscure his features entirely. Its edges curled and billowed like an aurora, with wispy tendrils reaching out to brush across various things around him as if learning them by touch: a person, a glowing rune on the ground, one of the crafted wonders.

With another gesture, the cloud vanished, and Loki blinked a bit dazedly. He recovered his bearings before Tyr really had a chance to grow concerned, and quickly flashed _All is well_ to him with a half-smile and an expression of wonder on his face.

"Lord Forseti, by your leave, I would make an announcement, before I commence judging these items," said Mimir.

"You have my leave," said Forseti.

"What's your name, boy? Your full name."

Loki cleared his throat softly. "I am called Loki. O-odinsson… Tyrsson. Seidmadr."

"And what other teachers have you had in your study of seidr?"

"I—my mother, for a while, until she said she had taught me all she could."

"And after that?"

"No one, seidmadr."

Mimir raised his eyebrow again. "With seidr running as deep as yours? Stupid, and dangerous, not to gain full control of your power as soon as possible. What idiot made that decision?"

Loki opened his mouth, but rather than answer he closed it again and gave the old sorcerer a helpless look. "Um."

The answer was obvious to everyone in the amphitheater, and Mimir was the farthest thing from a fool. "I see. Very well. I, Mimir, formally declare my intent to claim Loki Odinsson-Tyrsson as my student at sunrise, three days hence. If any wish to dispute my claim, they have until then to speak; thereafter, the boy shall be under my protection as his teacher, just as he is under the general's protection as his foster-father." He gestured aimlessly, and added, "Let word be passed through the usual channels." He nodded to Loki, who was standing close enough that Tyr could see the way the boy's hands had started to tremble. "You may sit. Thank you, law speaker, I have spoken."

Loki stumbled back to his seat while the audience stared, looking more than ever like he was about to pass out from shock; it really had been an eventful day for him, between one thing and another. After he sat, Thor whispered something in his ear, grinning, and Loki could only shake his head numbly in response. So Thor whispered something else, and Loki frowned and elbowed him instead, which amusingly enough seemed to help settle him down a bit.

"Now then, the dwarf-crafted works. Do you wish me to judge them without knowledge of who crafted which, or do you wish to identify your own pieces so that I can compare them with those of Ivaldi's sons?"

"We are not ashamed of our work, seidmadr," said one of the dwarfs.

"We will gladly tell you which of the wonders here were built by our own hands."

"Very well," said Mimir. "Which are those crafted by the two of you?"

The dwarfs stepped up proudly, and pointed to the objects in turn. "Here we have Gullinbursti, Golden-Mane the boar, able to run through air and water, faster than any horse. Moreover, its gold is so bright that there is no shadow may dim it; no darkness so complete that one may not see the glow of its bristles and mane."

The boar actually snorted, with a ringing, metallic sound, before one of the dwarfs touched it and it fell still.

The other dwarf held up the engraved arm-ring. "This is Draupnir, the Dripping One—"

"It drips?" someone in the audience called skeptically, and a few others laughed.

The dwarf glared. "Drips _gold._ Every ninth night, eight new rings identical to this one will drop from it into the lap of the one who bears it. He will never be without wealth, and it will always multiply."

At this, the watching Aesir traded speculative looks, and nodded thoughtfully as they murmured.

"Lastly," said the first dwarf, holding up the hammer, "Mjolnir, the Crusher. Whoever wields this will be as a thunderbolt in battle: should he strike with it, he will not fail no matter what stands before him; should he throw it, he will never miss, and the weapon will return to his hand. No weapon is as fearsome as Mjolnir, and moreover, it may be wielded with only one hand!"

The gathered audience seemed impressed, talking amongst themselves; even Odin looked pleased with the offerings, which did not help Tyr's mood any. Loki, for his part, was scowling a little, while Hoenir leaned forward and said something to reassure him, but Mimir's face was entirely impassive.

"And the work from the sons of Ivaldi?" he asked.

Tyr stepped forward. "As the craftsmen themselves are not here, I will report what was told to us during this morning's court, seidmadr. Unless you prefer that Loki do so, as he was the one to purchase them."

"The sorcerer will be biased toward his student!" said one of the dwarfs.

"The boy will twist words to make it seem as though his _purchases_ are greater," sneered the other.

Forseti interjected, frowning severely. "Again, you accuse without evidence and attempt to sway us against a boy who is under the legal age to be placed on trial for any crime," he said. "None may lie inside these runes; we can and will make certain that the true description of Loki's purchases is presented here."

"In addition," said Tyr mildly, "Mimir's reputation is impeccable, and the wisdom of his decisions is legendary. We are honored to have him here, and the gift of his counsel is greater than you deserve. If any could see through an attempt to deceive, it would be he."

So Loki came back down, glancing at the dwarfs and Mimir nervously.

"The first gift, here, is a wig I commissioned, as… as apology for a deed I committed." He lifted it from its dummy head and let the strands pour over his arm like silk. "It's meant to be as lifelike as possible, and the craftsman said—well, he _hinted_ that it would become real once the wearer puts it on. That their hair would look like this forever afterward."

In the audience Tyr saw Sif, seated next to her father, lean forward with a look of genuine need on her face. Her head was bound in a colorful scarf, hiding the handiwork Loki had admitted to in Tyr's study.

Next, he held up the packet of wood fragments. "This is… this is a ship, actually," said Loki, and the audience chuckled.

"A model?" asked Mimir. "Like the boar?"

"No, seidmadr. That's the wonder of it. It is large enough for a crew of two dozen men, with all their gear and weapons that they might need besides; but it is crafted so cleverly that it folds down to fit into a pocket. Moreover, it is said to sail on any sea no matter how rough the waves, and to always find favorable wind, no matter what direction it travels."

"Nonsense," someone in the audience muttered. "You were gulled, boy."

"Sold a pack of twigs and told it was a wonder," said another.

Loki's expression turned dark. "The runes do not show that I lie," he said hotly, "and if the law speakers permit, I will go up above the amphitheater and unfold it for all to see. I cannot do so here, because it will be _too big_ once I am done."

"First tell us of this last purchase," said Forseti, before the muttering in the crowd could grow too loud.

"It is a spear called Gungnir, the Swaying One; it is enchanted never to miss its target," said Loki. "No matter how weak the arm that throws it, it will strike true and deep, and can even curve around obstacles to reach the one whom it is meant for. That is how it was named," he added. "And before anyone else expresses their doubt, the craftsmen demonstrated it for me, outside their forge. I watched it curve in flight to go around a stone pillar and strike a wooden target on the other side, and it was embedded halfway up its blade even though it was thrown with only as much force as—as one might toss a paper onto a desk."

Tyr could see several people leaning to peer at the runes on the ground, looking for even a hint of change in their brightness or color, but they remained steady.

"You may step off the stage and up onto the ridge, to… unfold this ship of yours," said Forseti. "Take care to remain within the light of the torches, that all may see what you do there."

"Yes, law speaker."

"Will you require assistance opening it?" asked Mimir.

 _Or a guard_ , thought Tyr; if the boy stepped outside the thingstead's boundaries, he would no longer be under the protection of Thing traditions, and if anyone were feeling especially treacherous, he could come to harm.

"Not at first, seidmadr. But i-if you wanted to see up close how it works, that—that might be helpful for you."

"Take three law speakers with you," said Forseti, "that we may have reliable witnesses of anything that occurs beyond the sight of the people gathered here below."

"Yes, law speaker."

Loki headed up the ramp, the packet of wood slivers held in one hand. Behind him came Mimir (and it was obvious to Tyr that Loki was resisting looking over his shoulder with every fiber of his being), and behind them came three of the law speakers. The audience watched them troop around the perimeter of the amphitheater above them, then disappear a little way out of sight of the ridge that formed the stage's back wall.

"We demand to see as well," said one of the dwarf brothers.

"You may leave if you wish," said Forseti, "but by our laws, as you are one of the people involved in tonight's dispute, if you leave the stage before a decision is reached, you forfeit your right to argue your case, and the verdict will automatically be decided against you."

"What!"

Tyr couldn't tell which of them had spoken, so he smiled serenely at them both. "The Thing is a place of peaceful discussion, meant to decide weighty matters. What man would flee before the verdict, if he were not guilty of some crime?"

The dwarfs scowled at him ferociously, one of them even going so far as to bare his teeth in a snarl.

Tyr decided that when this was over and it was time to punish them, that one could go first.

A shout rose from the back rows of the thingstead, those highest up and closest to level ground. Everyone turned in their seats to see what the commotion was, but the people there were standing and pointing back at the space beyond the stage. A minute later, the rows further down began to gasp and cry out as well, and before long, many in the lower rows were scrambling up to get a better view themselves.

For the briefest moment, Tyr wished he could leave the stage himself to see what was there. Directly above him, he began to hear the creaking of wood, then the hollow thud of someone scrambling and scuffing about… not unlike, he realized, the sound of a fisherman climbing around inside a boat hull. More wood creaked, followed by more gasps and shouts from the audience.

The dwarfs looked furious. In their seats about halfway up, Thor and Hoenir looked positively delighted.

Tyr began to grin.

There was a final thump of wood, the sound of something settling into place, and the gathered Aesir actually _cheered._

Then the thingstead grew quiet, apart from a few anxious whispers, as people strained to listen to voices speaking outside the curve of the amphitheater. After a few moments, someone—several someones—gave a groan of disappointment; from the sound of wood moving again, Tyr could only assume that the boy was collapsing the ship once more.

It took a few minutes, during which people returned to their seats, talking excitedly, but soon enough Loki, Mimir, and the three law speakers appeared at the top of the ramp and made their way down to the stage once more. Loki, bless the boy, looked like he was trying very hard to display behavior appropriate to the solemnity of the Thing and not crow in delight instead.

* * *

 

Forseti thumped his staff on the hollow, and the echoes quickly brought everyone to order. "Law speakers, Mimir: did Loki's purchase fit the description he gave?"

"It did," said one of the law speakers. "To avoid any hint of impropriety, Lord Mimir suggested that one of us unfold it, following His Highness's direction, rather than having His Highness open it himself. We did so, and the wonder unfolded to a finely-wrought karvi with dragon head and tail, a tall mast, and room, as His Highness claimed, for two dozen men plus their gear. All this was wrought with such perfection that it was impossible to tell that the entire thing had begun as a mere collection of slivers of wood. Afterward, again following His Highness's instructions, the longship was collapsed back into itself, folding up neatly, until it was once again the bundle you see here."

A second law speaker stepped forward. "I will attest that His Highness spoke only the truth in his description of the ship itself, and see no reason to doubt his assertions as to how seaworthy the vessel might be."

"Thank you, law speakers," intoned Forseti. "You may be seated. Loki, have you anything further to say about your purchases?"

"No, law speaker."

"So be it. You may be seated as well." He waited while everyone else moved off the stage, then turned to Mimir. "Seidmadr, will you judge?"

Mimir nodded, and the thingstead fell silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been going crazy trying to decide if the boat is more properly a karvi or a snekkja, because I am a nerd, but with its relatively small size I figure the proportion has to be more like a karvi. Snekkjar supposedly didn't get that small, so I figure anything the size of this boat would have to be proportioned like a karvi or it would be too skinny.
> 
> Because I'm a nerd, in case you hadn't gotten that memo by now.


	14. Mimir's decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mimir renders his judgment; the Thing reaches its decision; we learn the dwarfs' motives.

Mimir nodded, and the thingstead fell silent; to Tyr it almost seemed as though the gathered crowd were all holding their breath in anticipation.

"Rather than judging the works of Ivaldi's sons as an entire body, next to the entire body of Brokkr and Eitri's work, I will judge them individually," he said. "We have here two items made for beauty, or vanity; two weapons; and two wonders with the gift of movement. Let us then judge them side by side."

Some people in the audience nodded, while others leaned forward attentively.

"Now, which to judge first…" the sorcerer murmured. Some in the audience called out for the ship and boar to be judged first, while others shouted in favor of the weapons. One person stood and said to judge the items of beauty first and then move on to the more important items; at this, Mimir raised his eyebrow skeptically.

"More important? As the boy put it, the wig was purchased as an apology gift, meant to reconcile with a person whom he had wronged. These other items are impressive, but they did not constitute the entire reason for his trip to Nidavellir in the first place. But yes. I will judge them first."

Mimir stepped over to the two items and held them up, one in each hand. Both gleamed in the torchlight, and the strands of the wig fluttered in the faintest of breezes.

"Both these items are impressively crafted," he said; "skillfully wrought, and with subtle enchantments worked into them besides. As examples of craftsmanship, I would judge them to be the equal of one another."

In the audience, Loki's face fell. On the stage, Brokkr and Eitri looked smug.

"On the other hand, if I were the one _receiving_ these gifts, I would want to be a bit more cautious. I personally would keep the wig, but I strongly recommend returning the arm-ring to the ones who made it, or else destroying it."

The people of the Thing began to mutter, but fell silent again when Odin stood. "And why is that, good Mimir?" he asked. To Tyr he sounded either skeptical or annoyed; doubtless he'd hoped to claim the ring for himself. "If they are equal in craftsmanship, why destroy such a treasure?"

"Because according to the laws of magic, it is possible, albeit difficult, for a person with seidr to create objects from thin air; however, it is _not_ possible for an inanimate object like this arm-ring to do so. The gold it produces must therefore come from somewhere else. At best, Odin Borsson, if the ring were yours the gold might simply be brought forth from your own treasury, every nine nights, and your wealth would never truly increase. At worst, the gold would be stolen from someone else's treasury, or even a dragon's hoard, and you would risk war with whomever was the victim of such thievery."

The dwarfs looked mutinous; Tyr had a suspicion that they had hoped no one in Asgard would catch onto that little detail until it was too late—and then likely blame Loki for it instead of themselves.

So he spoke up. "Law speakers—I confess that I can only speculate as to the dwarfs' motives, but I have evidence which strongly suggests that this band would have been meant for Odin All-Father, and is very possibly intended to remove gold from the treasury of Hreidmarr, King Under Twelve Mountains and ruler of Nidavellir. I cannot accuse, because the only way to be certain would be to wait nine nights until the arm-ring produces its gold, and then search to see whence it came; however, my correspondence speaks of a grudge held between the brothers, Brokkr and Eitri, and the parties of Hreidmarr, Ivaldi, and his sons."

"Gifting this arm-ring to the All-Father would have involved Asgard in that grudge; brought the Realm Eternal into conflict with Nidavellir," pointed out Yrsa. "To what end?"

Forseti thumped on the hollow again. "That is a question which deserves an answer, good Yrsa, but in its proper time. First, let us allow Mimir to complete his judgment of the items brought before us."

Gradually, the Thing quieted once more.

"Thank you, law speaker," said Mimir. "Now then. The wonders. A collapsible ship, and a lifelike model of a boar. Again, the craftsmanship is remarkable in each object, in its way; it is difficult to judge the two items side-by-side. Good dwarfs, I ask you; what is the purpose of the golden boar?"

The two brothers squinted at him suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, what use does it have? Can you eat it? I would guess not, since it is made of gold. Does one use it to practice the hunt? I doubt so, because you claim that it runs on water and in air, and faster than a horse can run. That is no way to teach someone to hunt boar."

The crowd chuckled.

"Or perhaps since it glows so brightly, even in complete darkness, it is meant to serve as a kind of lamp."

Again the audience reacted with humor, and the dwarfs both scowled.

"It is meant to be a wonder," said one.

"In and of itself," said the other.

"It needs no _use_."

"It is there to be admired."

"Ah, I see," said Mimir. "And again, admirably crafted. Were I to judge only on the quality of the work, again I would say these two were nearly equal. And yet, if I were to choose between them, again I would choose the more useful of the two items."

"You are to judge the quality," said one dwarf, "not the usefulness."

"You said they were equal," said the other.

"I said they were nearly equal," corrected Mimir. "For I have seen other carefully constructed automata, in other realms, and even on primitive Midgard; but never have I even heard of a construction so clever as the ship of the sons of Ivaldi, with enchantments worked into it besides."

"You compare us to Midgard?!" shouted one.

"Primitive _mortals?_ " demanded the other.

"Oh, be silent," said Mimir, before Forseti could intervene. "You take umbrage at everything, as if you were petulant children. You are going to lose this competition and you already know it. I do not see why you are still making such noise about it."

"How dare you—"

Forseti banged his staff again, and the echo rang out across the thingstead. "You have been warned. You will be removed—"

"Law speaker, if I may," said Tyr.

"What is it, General?" Poor Forseti looked about ready to club with his staff the next person who spoke out of turn.

"I understand that the normal custom is to remove those who cannot abide by the rules of the Thing," he said soothingly. "However, good Mimir is nearly finished with his judgment, and I would have the dwarfs remain to hear it. I would not wish them to have opportunity later to complain to _their_ king that they were cheated, just as they have already complained to ours. I respectfully request that you let them stay, then, even if you wish to invoke some other reprimand against them that might be within your power."

People in the audience were nodding, and even Mimir looked slightly impressed at Tyr's reasoning. Forseti and the other law speakers conferred between them, and then the chief law speaker nodded. "Very well. Brokkr and Eitri may stay, but if they speak so much as another word out of their proper turn, they will be gagged. The sanctity of the Thing _will_ be respected, even by foreigners, is that understood?"

The dwarfs glared, but both nodded.

"Now. Seidmadr Mimir. Why say you that the dwarfs are about to lose this judgment?"

"It is quite simple, really," said Mimir, with a shrug. "The wig and the arm-ring are equal in craftsmanship, though I would only keep one; likewise, the boar and the ship are nearly equal, in terms of quality if not usefulness. The weapons, however…" He stepped over and picked up the mallet. "This was intended to be a warhammer, but such weapons normally have a haft at least as tall as the warriors who carry them. The handle here, as all can see, is barely as long as my forearm. On the other hand, Brokkr and Eitri claim that it can be thrown and would return to the wielder's hand. But if it were truly meant to be a throwing hammer instead, then its head is ridiculously oversized." He set it down with a thud, and shrugged again, blatantly nonchalant. "The weapon is defective. It has potential, mind you; a weapon that always strikes true is certainly valuable, a treasure in its own right. But with such a short handle, the lack of leverage means that only the very strongest of warriors could hope to wield it.

"Even so. The quality of the two objects is not at all equal, and the sons of Ivaldi have clearly crafted better. Therefore, judging the works of Ivaldi's sons alongside those of Brokkr and Eitri, Ivaldi's sons have wrought better. Brokkr and Eitri lose the judgment."

* * *

The dwarfs snarled and raged. "You claim to be unbiased yet you mock our work!" said one of them.

Mimir was unfazed. " _You_ claimed to want a neutral judge, yet you were quick to point out which pieces were your handicraft. You would have been better to keep that information to yourselves, so that I could assess the pieces blindly, and I offered you the choice to do exactly that. Instead, you held up your crafts and tried to _sell_ them to us with pretty words, to convince us you crafted deliberately and not defectively when you made the hammer, while the sons of Ivaldi are nowhere near to speak of their own pieces."

"Why are you offended by 'pretty words'?" asked one of the dwarfs.

"You are taking the Silvertongue as your apprentice," said the other.

"I believe the law speakers have already reminded everyone that Loki is not on trial this evening," said Mimir. "And I trust I am not, either."

"You most assuredly are not, seidmadr," said Forseti. "Now. The questions put before the Thing this evening were whether or not Brokkr and Eitri wrongfully attacked His Highness, and if so, what the consequence of that action ought to be. For the first question, the evidence is clear that they did. It is obvious that even if His Highness was unaware of the language gap between a person's head and a 'head' of gold, the dwarfs did know of it, and willfully took advantage of that misunderstanding to deceive the All-Father and punish an innocent boy."

In his seat, Loki's shoulders dropped in visible relief, while Odin remained impassive. Tyr had to wonder just how deceived the All-Father really had been. Measurements of gold on foreign realms seemed like the kind of thing a king ought to know.

Tyr had expected the two dwarfs to raise a fuss, as they had been all along whenever someone said something they did not like; this time, one of them started to shout, but Forseti only rolled his eyes and waved to one corner of the audience, where the volur sat with a few warriors beside them. The warriors came down to the stage, and when the dwarfs began to back away from them, the volur gestured, one of them tossed some powder into the air, and Brokkr and Eitri collapsed to the ground bonelessly. The warriors caught them before they could hit the stones and injure themselves—the Thing was a place where no one could inflict injury on another—and then two of them knelt, unwrapped their winingas, and used them to gag the dwarfs and bind their hands behind their backs.

Not long afterward, the enchantment wore off, and the warriors hauled Brokkr and Eitri to their feet. They grunted and shuffled like angry pigs, their eyes rolling in rage or fear, but the gags held and Forseti was able to continue.

"So. The dwarfs are guilty of wrongfully attacking His Highness. Moreover, their motive for the attack, claiming that His Highness refused to pay for their work after he lost a wager, is clearly false. The penalties for attacking a citizen of Asgard on foreign soil are quite steep; the penalties for attacking a member of the royal family are severe."

The dwarfs grew very, very still at that.

"But he is not a member of the royal family," said Odin; he had muttered, sulking, but the amphitheater was designed to catch all sound and amplify it, and the audience heard and gasped… Loki included.

Tyr scowled, but kept his voice even. "The fostering ceremony does not cause the child affected to lose any of his or her former rank," he said.

"Agreed," said Forseti, looking at the All-Father with narrowed eyes. "Do you disown him now? Even if you do, All-Father—which would surely reflect upon you more than it would upon him—he was still your son when you allowed the dwarfs to mutilate him before your court. Be thankful that the Thing has not convened to discuss _your_ part in those actions."

Now it was Odin's turn to narrow his eye. He looked positively menacing… except that the rest of the people of the Thing were murmuring angrily, and none of it was directed toward Loki.

Could it be that the people of the Thing were finally realizing how far Odin had led them away from thinking, and determining right from wrong, for themselves?

Odin, for his part, seemed to realize the Thing's mood at almost the last second, with Frigga whispering something into his ear before he could speak. "I do not disown him," he said finally. "He remains a prince of Asgard."

Carefully not spoken of: Whether or not the boy would ever again be Odin's son. From the look on Loki's face, it was clear that he'd not missed the hidden message there. Damn Odin for a fool, and a vicious fool besides; how many different ways could he find to hurt the boy even after he had released him from his clutches and into Tyr's care?

"Then the question remains," Forseti was saying: "how does Asgard respond to an attack against one of her princes?"

"War!" came the cry from several voices. Tyr studied the dwarfs' expressions carefully. Behind their gags, they seemed not quite fearful enough of such an outcome. Once again, the validity of General Dvalin's information was borne out.

"That is not for the Thing to decide," Forseti reminded them. "The War Council consists of the All-Father, General Tyr, and one other."

"But the precedent is there," called Yrsa.

"Agreed," said Tyr, "yet I for one will not cast my vote for it.."

"But these dwarfs are guilty!" came one voice. "Not even for your foster son?" demanded another.

"No," said Tyr, so forcefully and with such a fierce expression that the Thing grew quiet once more. "Do you not see? War is exactly what Brokkr and Eitri want. _Hreidmarr_ did not decide in their favor. His Highness was _not_ reprimanded in Nidavellir, for they recognized no wrongdoing on his part. It was only afterward that these two miserable piles of offal came to Asgard to escalate matters. They defied their own king when they ignored his ruling. They knew damn well what they were doing when they came here, and if the seidmadr's assessment about that arm-ring is correct, then they likely knew what they were doing when they _crafted_ the treacherous thing for His Highness to bear home."

"Why would they want war between Asgard and their own homeland?" asked an older lord in the audience. Yrsa nodded emphatically, the question an echo of her own from earlier.

"Does it matter?" countered someone else. "The fact that they would desire such a thing makes them traitors. We all know the penalty for that."

Ah. Now the two dwarfs began to look properly frightened.

"But they are not _our_ citizens," said Tyr, "and their treason is not ours to punish."

"Yet something must be done to avenge the insult they have done to Asgard," said a woman in the rear of the auditorium, and several people agreed with her vocally.

"If I may," said Mimir; once again, the assembly grew quiet.

"What wisdom would you share with us, seidmadr?" asked Forseti, nodding for him to continue.

"The penalty for attacking a prince is often war, which must be decided by the War Council, but which Asgard would be wisest to avoid, rather than fall into Brokkr and Eitri's trap; however, the penalty for attacking any man's son is, according to law and precedent, between him and the party who did his family injury. War need not even be considered; instead, the two who were here found guilty could simply be handed to the injured party for retribution."

Tyr made sure to meet the eyes of both dwarfs, and to show his teeth as his grinned. They both began to struggle against their bonds, to no avail.

"So long as they are not killed or injured in any way beyond the harm they themselves caused, then Hreidmarr ought not have cause to be angered by the punishment levied."

"But who would receive them for punishment?" pondered one man in the audience. "His Highness is fostered and has two fathers; which one ought to mete out punishment?"

Several people in the gathering openly scoffed or made other noises of disbelief. "Which one objected to His Highness's treatment and which one _allowed_ it?" asked one… although he ducked out of sight when Odin turned to glare in his direction, looking for the speaker.

"Aye, it's not a difficult question to answer," said another.

"But… but the All-Father—" someone began tentatively.

"Did you not hear Mimir? It is not the All-Father and the prince in question here, it is a man and his son."

Several people were careful not to look in Odin's direction as they mumbled that the king was pretty clearly not Loki's father for this purpose, especially since the fostering ceremony that morning.

Loki drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, but did not look at either Odin or Tyr; Thor leaned into his side and threw an arm across his shoulders, speaking to him too softly for anyone to hear.

Finally, Forseti thumped his staff against the hollow again, and waited while the Thing settled. "Do we have consensus, then, people of the Thing? Law speakers?"

" _Aye_ ," came the response, echoing in the little pocket valley of the amphitheater and out across the plain.

"Then this shall be the judgment of the Thing: to the first question put before us, the answer is that Brokkr and Eitri did wrongfully and maliciously attack a prince of Asgard. To the second question put before us, the answer is that the dwarfs, Brokkr and Eitri, shall be remanded to the custody of General Tyr Hymirsson, to be punished as he sees fit, before no less than five witnesses to ensure that the punishment does not exceed the crime." He turned toward the warriors, who were still holding the struggling dwarfs. "Remove them from the thingstead and hold them by the ash tree until this Thing is concluded, at which point justice will be meted out."

The dwarfs put up quite a fuss, but they were no warriors, and with their limbs bound there was little they could do to keep from being hauled bodily up and out of the amphitheater. Boos and catcalls followed them, but no one raised a hand to harm them; none had the right, now, and they all knew it.

* * *

"Are they are further questions to be addressed by the Thing before we disperse?" asked Forseti.

One of the law speakers stepped forward. "During the arguments, the question was raised as to the dwarfs' motives for their attack against His Highness. However, the motive may now be moot, since the verdict has been rendered."

"Very well," said Forseti; "does the Thing wish to ponder this sub-question tonight?"

"Given they wanted war, I'd certainly like to know," said Yrsa, and several others agreed.

"Are we certain His Highness did nothing to provoke them?" asked someone else.

"I can answer that, while addressing the question," said Tyr. He held up the scroll that he'd shown them before. "What I did not say is that my information came from no less than General Dvalin himself: my counterpart in Nidavellir, chief general of the dwarfish armies. He witnessed the attempt on the part of Brokkr and Eitri to stir up strife and recognized them from previous altercations; then, having witnessed King Hreidmarr's judgment and the smiths' response to it, he wrote to me in the hope of preventing an injustice from being perpetrated tonight."

The members of the Thing murmured in impressed tones. Forseti and the other law speakers looked thoughtful, while Loki only looked concerned.

"And what have you learned, General Tyr?" Forseti asked.

"Foremost, I have learned that the dwarfs as a whole are as honorable a people as are we of Asgard," he replied. "I want to state that plainly, so that all understand that Brokkr and Eitri are exceptions to the rule, and not reliable examples of the character of Nidavellir's people. Just as we Aesir have the occasional lawbreaker among us, but are nevertheless honorable people by and large. More specifically to this case, I learned that the two smiths were once in competition for a post as Royal Artisan, a prestigious position given only to the very best of the craftsmen and women of Nidavellir. The position is held until the death of the artisan, at which time the award is bestowed anew.

"Perhaps unsurprisingly, the title of Royal Artisan was last bestowed upon the smith, Ivaldi, and in the intervening centuries, his sons have reaped the benefit of their father's prestige. Brokkr and Eitri do not feel that the sons deserve the increase in custom, and have worked in the past to undermine Ivaldi, or his sons. Their grudge has grown into an obsession, according to General Dvalin, and they have reached a point where, it seems, they would risk war with Asgard in order to _vindicate_ themselves in the face of the perceived slight."

"How would war serve them?" asked a freeman in the audience. " _Treachery_ cannot improve their careers!"

"If Dvalin understands their thinking correctly, and I think he does, then a war with Asgard is one which Asgard would most likely win. The king, Hreidmarr, would be killed and replaced, or at the very least Ivaldi's sons would be called to fight and most likely be killed in battle. Thus the post of Royal Artisan becomes open once more, and there are the brothers, Brokkr and Eitri, ready and willing to step into it."

There was silence for a long moment as people took that in, then gradually Tyr began to see expressions of disgust appear throughout the thingstead.

"Too cowardly even to be murderers," said someone off to one side, and the gathered audience muttered in agreement.

"You see, now, why I do not wish for Asgard to war with Nidavellir. They have not earned our enmity, and we would reward the efforts of two traitors by becoming party to their schemes."

The agreement throughout the Thing was unanimous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response from you all has been so overwhelming for this fic, and I thank you. As of this posting, I have Chapter 15 and 16 pretty much done, and with Christmas coming up I may post one or both of those chapters earlier than usual. I'm thinking 15 will go up Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, only three days from now. I will not, no matter how you beg, post Chapter 16 on Christmas Day; you see, that's the one where the dwarfs finally get their comeuppance, and it is violent, and I just can't bring myself to post it on a day traditionally associated with "peace on earth", you know? :)
> 
> The day after, however, when the stores put everything on sale and everyone starts returning all the stuff they just bought... could be fair game. I'm just sayin'.
> 
> No matter what winter holiday you celebrate this season, I hope it's a good one for you.


	15. Sif

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Thing concludes; Tyr is interrupted before he punishes the dwarfs, and Sif and her quarrel are dealt with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, a few hours later than I hoped - Merry Christmas. Even Sif gets a present!

Around the thingstead, people began to stir and to gather their things for the journey back to their homes, when one voice rang out:

"What of the gifts? Does His Highness mean to keep them all?"

Tyr looked, and the light of the torches showed Sif's father, with his arms folded stubbornly and chin jutting out; next to him, the girl was glaring at Loki as though her eyes alone could set him on fire where he sat.

Around them, people leaned over curiously or stopped what they were doing to listen, but Forseti only shook his head. "The items belong to His Highness, and their disposition is not for the Thing to decide."

"Yet one of those was made specifically for my daughter," said her father, a stout man named Otrygg, if Tyr recalled correctly. "I will not leave until the wrong he did my daughter is undone."

"I have no objection to that, Lord Otrygg," said Tyr, "and I doubt that my foster son does, either; but it is true that these matters do not require the Thing's mandate to see that they are carried out."

Reluctantly, Otrygg asked, "What did you have in mind?"

"Only that you wait by the ash tree, and when I have finished a bit of important business there, my foster son and I shall attend to you and your daughter. Is this amenable to you?"

"It is fair enough," nodded Otrygg.

* * *

There were only a few more formalities to see to as Forseti concluded the Thing; there were idle conversations and gossip beginning, but the volur dimmed the runes once more, and the law speakers managed to shoo everyone out of the thingstead and on their way. Before long, Loki's prizes were on the wagon, and the amphitheater was dark and empty; there were only the law speakers, two of the volur, and perhaps two dozen others remaining behind to observe Tyr's punishment of the dwarfs.

Tyr was mildly surprised that the All-Father and the queen both remained, but perhaps they were only waiting for Thor to join them so that they could all leave together. Or perhaps Odin wanted to save face after the revelations at the Thing. No matter.

Some of the warriors had thought to move the torches of the thingstead, and had staked out a circle of firelight under the branches of the great ash tree. Within it, Brokkr and Eitri were still bound and glaring at him, pressed up against the trunk of the tree and watched over by the warriors who had removed them.

_Finally._

The harm they had done to an innocent boy, whose only misfortune was to be overheard by a pair of obsessed and envious carrion-eaters, would finally be avenged.

Tyr took a slow breath, holding his control for just a bit longer, and gestured to Hoenir to bring the wagon they had prepared for the evening. As he turned, he spotted Loki, Thor, and Sif standing in the crowd, and he frowned.

"Otrygg," he called, stepping away from the dwarfs. They weren't going anywhere.

"What is it?"

"It occurs to me," he said, lowering his voice, "that there are those here who are too young to witness what I intend to do to those miserable scum over there. Perhaps it would be best if we were to deal with your matter first, and see the youths on their way."

Otrygg took only a moment to consider that before nodding decisively. "Aye, that is wise," he said. "Training to be warriors they may be, but they are not warriors yet. No need to expose them to all that before they are ready."

Tyr signalled one of the warriors to come over. "The dwarfs' punishment is delayed a few minutes. Check their bindings, and make sure those at their wrists are good and tight." He managed not to snarl as he added, "The tighter, the better. I want their hands numb for what I've planned."

"Sir."

Otrygg brought Sif over to the wagon where Loki, Hoenir, and Mimir were waiting. Thor was still there as well, and Frigga had drifted over to join them with Odin following behind.

When Loki spotted the girl, he clenched his jaw, but pulled the wig out from the collection of objects on the wagon without saying anything. With a gentle shake, the strands untangled and tumbled free, flowing like water under the torchlight.

Sif eyed the thing greedily, but before she could reach for it, Tyr asked Loki, "Did you have anything you wanted to say?"

The boy looked mutinous, but managed to grit out, "I'm sorry I cut your hair," in a tone that Tyr was pretty sure no one believed.

"Mm. And Sif?" The girl, for her part, looked startled, and just as defiant as Loki. "Did you have anything _you_ wished to say to Loki, by way of apology?"

"Me?!" Sif's eyes grew wide. "He's the one who cut off my hair!"

"And he paid for it, didn't he," said Tyr mildly. Otrygg was looking at his daughter with a slightly appalled expression on his face.

"He _deserved_ it," she hissed, leaning in to face Loki. "Stupid little arrogant _snob,_ acting like you're better than all the rest of us; you _deserved_ it."

"Sif!" Otrygg looked shocked, and reached out to grip her shoulder hard, but Loki was faster.

"And you deserved _this!_ _"_ he cried, yanking the scarf off her head.

Sif shrieked, which only served to call more attention to her; two dozen gathered bystanders turned to see her clutching at her shorn head.

Loki had done a horrible job, but then he'd not been looking to make her pretty when he'd cut off her locks; she looked overall like her hair had been chewed off by an especially hungry goat. There were places where her scalp showed through, the hair completely gone and even a bit scratched from whatever blade Loki had used, and other areas where the hair hung in ragged hanks of two or three inches' length. At the very back, near the base of her neck, a wispy rattail of hair that the boy hadn't been able to reach while Sif slept hung to her shoulders, less than a finger wide.

Sif screamed again, this time in rage, and launched herself at him, but Tyr stepped between them and caught her, shoving her back long enough for Otrygg to get his arms around her.

Over her curses, Otrygg demanded, "Why would you do such a thing to my daughter? You are a prince of the realm! I do not say that you deserved what the dwarfs did, not in any way, but what could Sif possibly have done to you to have earned such a malicious prank?"

" _Prank?_ It was no prank. She's lucky this was all I did!" said Loki, his voice actually trembling with suppressed rage.

Otrygg's eyes grew wide in shock, then anger. "You admit you would do worse if you could get away with it?"

 _"Yes_ , and gladly!"

"Why?"

" _She called me a nithing!_ " It was Loki's turn to shriek, his voice echoing across the plain before utter silence fell.

"Sif…" Otrygg's voice was ragged, as his grip loosened on the girl's shoulders. "Daughter. Is this true?"

"He acts like he's so much better than the rest of us," she said sullenly, her eyes flashing. "He doesn't even _fight_ right, he uses magic like some kind of _freak_ _…"_

Tyr swung his arm back, then forward, slapping Sif across the mouth hard enough for her to stumble back into her father's grasp.

"Perhaps you believe that you can simply throw words around and they will not be as sharp as any of the other weapons you train with," he said calmly. "I will tell you now, and you will pay attention: were you and Loki of age, and you called him that, he would be completely within his rights to slaughter you where you stood. Do you understand what I am saying, Sigrunsdottir? No challenge. No holmgang. Just his dagger through your eye, and you a corpse on the ground, for the insult you just gave."

Sif stared at him in angry disbelief.

"It is fortunate for you that you are, one, too young to challenge anyone to a duel, and two, female and barred from holmgang. _Those are the only reasons you are still alive_ , Sigrunsdottir. What Loki did to you, he did in retaliation for a deadly insult, because it was the only recourse left to him. Even though he is not yet a grown man, a slight like the one you gave would haunt him for his entire life if he did nothing to answer it. Honor demanded a response, and he gave the only one he could. Yet you have the gall to demand an apology, and to gather your cohort to threaten His Highness on your behalf—His Highness, _your prince_ —threatened with broken bones if he does not _make amends_ to you, when it was you who brought all of this upon yourself."

Sif swallowed heavily, her face paler than before, but said nothing. Her father had stepped away from her and was watching her with his arms folded.

"Personally," Tyr went on, "I think you knew damn well you were protected by your age and your sex, and I also think that you, for all your vaunted warrior's honor, really were low enough to take advantage of that to insult my foster son in a way that he could not fight against… except that he found a way around that, and now you are angry that you must live with the consequences of your actions."

"But I—I am a shield maiden," began Sif.

Loki interrupted. "Then I did you a favor by cutting your hair for you, didn't I?" he sneered.

"Hush, Loki," said Tyr, without looking. To Sif, he continued, in that same calm voice. "You are not."

"Yes I—"

He slapped her again to shut her up. "At the end of the Aesir-Vanir war, some twenty-seven centuries ago, Bor disbanded the shield maidens. He wanted none of the influence of Vanaheim to carry over and contaminate Asgard, he said, and there have been none trained on this realm ever since. Can you tell me who your mentor is, Sigrunsdottir? Have you taken any vows?"

"I… vows? Sir?" The honorific was forced out, but she at least said it.

"Of course not. Have you gone through the necessary deprivations, the fasting, the rituals and lessons that are part of becoming a shield maiden? Have you chosen to be celibate, before you even share your bed with a man for the first time? You need not answer. We all know that you have not. And of course, no true shield maiden would have demanded of her friends that they threaten a prince _for_ her, rather than issuing the challenge herself."

"Oh, my daughter," said Otrygg softly.

She turned to him, tears beginning to well up in her eyes. "But… but, Father, I—"

Tyr sighed, and took pity on her. "You are a girl who fights, and I recognize that that is a respectable challenge on its own, Sif, for there are far too few of you in Asgard's ranks since the days of Bor's decree. However, being a girl who fights is not the same as having earned the _supreme_ honor of calling yourself a shield maiden. And even though they no longer fight, I assure you that there are still shield maidens in Asgard, who might be willing to teach you if the All-Father were to rescind Bor's decree… but even if they cannot, I assure you that you would be wisest not to call yourself one any longer, or you just may end up eating those words through broken teeth."

Sif swallowed hard, and swallowed again, ignoring the tears that dripped down her cheeks. "Yes, weaponsmaster," she said, her voice thick.

"I have only one thing left to say," said Tyr, and he waited while she pulled herself together, bracing as if for another blow.

She was a brave lass, but just like all the other recruits of her age, she was young, and prone to stupidity. None of that made her a bad person, nor any other recruit like her, but it did sometimes mean that the lesson needed to be pounded home until Tyr could be sure the recruit truly understood it.

"I said before that since you are neither a shield maiden nor a grown man, you were protected from Loki killing you on the spot for your insult against his character and his honor. As it happens, young as you are, a holmgang _could_ still be fought." He made sure to catch her gaze and hold it, driving the point home. "If ever I hear that you have insulted my foster son again, in such a manner as you already have, there _will be_ a duel… only since you are not of age, you would have to find a champion to fight on your behalf, just as I would fight on Loki's. I would guess that it would be your father who volunteered, fighting in the ring against me as Loki's foster father. Now, I want you to think on that, Sigrunsdottir. There would be a holmgang, and one of us would be dead at the end of it: either your father, whom you love dearly and who supports you even in the face of the mockery of his fellow warriors, or me, a confidant of the king and the chief general of Asgard for the past fifteen hundred years. One of us would be dead, and that man's blood would be on _your_ hands.

"I know that you've no desire to chase a husband, Sigrunsdottir, but after such an atrocity, you would never have to worry about that again. No man would have you, if you got one of us killed in such a fashion. Not as a wife, nor as battle-partner, to stand at your back in war. Do you understand? You would make of yourself a pariah, all for the sake of pride.

"You think on that, and ponder which of us you are willing to see dead, before you consider flinging about such insults from here forward. Hm?"

"Yes, weaponsmaster," whispered Sif.

"General, if I may?" Everyone turned to look at Frigga, who stood serenely watching them with her hands tucked into her sleeves.

"Of course, my queen."

"Is it your opinion that Sif Sigrunsdottir is of a malicious or unworthy nature, General?"

Hmm. "No, my queen," he replied carefully. "She is young, and like nearly every young trainee warrior in my experience, she is going through that stage where youth and hotheadedness lead to occasional acts of stupidity. But I believe that she, like nearly every other trainee, will grow out of such stupidity by the time she is of legal age. If she does not, then as with the other such recruits in my experience, either the battlefield will teach her greater wisdom, or her stupidity will kill her and she will serve as a lesson to others."

"Is it, then, your intent to punish her for her behavior, both toward your foster son and here this evening?"

"It is not," said Tyr. "For one, I think all can agree that my foster son punished her admirably on his own, given the constraints he was under. For another, I have warned her against further acts of a malicious nature; and most importantly, for third, I do believe she is intelligent enough to learn from her errors and do better in future."

"I am glad that we are in agreement," said Frigga. "You see, it has always been my belief that punishment is not as effective as mercy and instruction, for those who are youthful enough not to know better."

"In many cases that is true," said Tyr; "however, the battlefield is not a gentle school, and I find it better to be harsh now and save lives later, than to coddle them and end with fighters unable to cope with the harsh realities of war."

"Yes, in that we are in complete agreement." Frigga tilted her head and looked Sif over shrewdly; the girl tried not to cringe back, but Tyr could see the way her hands twitched with the desire to cover her ragged head. "Did you know, Sif Sigrunsdottir, that I am Vanir by birth?"

"N-no… my queen."

"I am, in fact, one of the last of the Vanir shield maidens, and the only one on in Asgard today. Bor despised us, you see; he had certain notions about a woman's proper _place_ , and those notions have infected much of Asgard and the way that men perceive us, ever since. I presume you are familiar with such unreasoning scorn, are you not?"

"I… I am, my queen."

The girl's face was lit up into something that blended amazement and hope; Tyr risked a glance at Loki and saw that his expression was closer to dismay and resentment.

"Yes, I thought you might be. Well. My husband's actions today have deprived me of my son, Sif Sigrunsdottir; therefore, I think it only fair that he rescind Bor's decree far enough to permit shield maidens to _exist,_ and more importantly to take students."

Odin startled at this. "Frigga—" he began, but the queen leveled a stare at him that was so flat and cold it actually raised the hair on the back of Tyr's neck.

It would appear that the suspicions he had considered earlier today concerning the queen were entirely correct; without Loki to hold over Frigga's head and keep her in line, Odin was going to find his queen considerably less biddable than he had before this morning.

"What will you do, husband?" she asked him with deadly calm. "Threaten war with Vanaheim, as your father did, because I choose to teach a girl _of Asgard_ how to fight? _For_ Asgard?"

Odin's eye narrowed, and Tyr suspected he would berate her long into the night over this, but she had already won and he knew it.

"So be it," he said. "The queen, Frigga Fjörgynnsdottir, and only the queen, may take Aesir students to train as shield maidens in the traditions of her people, in the time and manner of her exclusive choosing, with the rights and responsibilities common to all other private weapons tutors of Asgard. The ban on shield maidens in Vanaheim is not otherwise rescinded, and the ban on shield maidens in Asgard will persist until such time as the first of Frigga's students are trained."

Sif's eyes lit up and her hands flew to cover her mouth.

"Mother!" Loki gasped, stepping forward. "Mother, you—you can't—"

"Silence, boy," Odin began.

Tyr leaned in close and met the All-Father's gaze. "Do not speak to the boy you gave up and who is no longer your son," he reminded him softly—just loudly enough for Loki to hear. "You relinquished all right to command him, outside the right of a king to his subjects, and you know it. Your pride has done you no favors this day, All-Father… and I think you know that, too."

Odin's nostrils flared and his lips thinned, but he nodded and did not reply.

"Very well," said Frigga. "Otrygg Otryggsson, do you consent to placing your daughter, Sif Sigrunsdottir, into my service as student and apprentice, to one day become the first new shield maiden Asgard has seen in nearly three millennia?"

"I…" Otrygg had to swallow hard and try again. "I do, my queen."

"Sif Sigrunsdottir, do you consent to become my student and apprentice, to obey my commands without question, to learn at my feet from this day forward until I and only I declare you ready and choose to release you from my service?" She held up a hand when the girl went to answer. "Think carefully, child. This is not a vow I will permit you to break, and it is only the lightest of the promises you will make before your training is over. You will be mine for centuries, and your time will not be your own. In many ways, even your body will belong to me. Be quite certain before you say yes."

"I am certain, my queen," said Sif. "I… to be a shield maiden of Asgard is all I have ever wanted. I have read and heard tales of them since I was a child; they were the entire reason I took up weapons training, in defiance of my mother's wishes. I…" Words failed, and she stared up at the queen helplessly.

"Then do you consent to all I have already said?"

" _Yes,_ my queen. Oh, yes."

"Mother!" Loki looked ready to cry; surely, in his mind, his mother was replacing a son with a daughter, less than a day after losing him.

"One moment, my son." Frigga did not even look at him, and his expression crumpled.

 _Wait,_ Tyr signaled to him, but he either did not see or did not heed.

"Step forward, Sif," said Frigga, and the girl did, glancing sideways at Loki and smirking at him as though she knew exactly what he was thinking, and agreed with it, thinking she had just won from him everything he himself had ever prized.

And then Frigga leaned her weight back a little, brought up her arm, and backhanded Sif so hard that the girl was flung to her knees with a cry of shock and pain.

"Lesson one," said Frigga. "Humility above all. A shield maiden is sworn to the service of Asgard, and is above no man or woman, be they warrior, civilian, noble, or slave. Ah-ah—stay there. You will remain on your knees until I tell you to rise, is that understood?"

Sif blinked in shock, wiping blood from her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Do you _understand?_ " Frigga repeated. "I will not ask again. Answer, or break your vow."

"I-I understand, m-my queen," said Sif. She could not keep the shock from her voice; Tyr was not sure she had even tried.

"You will address me as 'shield mother' from this day forward, for I will be to you more than queen, more even than your parents. There will be no closer bond in your life than that between fellow shield maidens, but you must _earn it,_ over time, and you will begin with earning it from me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, shield mother."

"Good." Frigga turned to face Loki and the others, who were all gaping at her openly, including Thor and even Odin. She smiled serenely, then turned around again to where Sif still knelt, her eyes wide and mouth bleeding, one bruised cheek already beginning to swell. The girl, despite everything, was still staring at that wig as if it would cure everything wrong in her life.

"Now then," said Frigga. "You gave my son a deadly insult, with that horrible name, and you and your friends thought it was funny when you did. In return, Loki cut off your hair. It was childish of you to threaten him to _fix_ what he did, and appalling that he was mutilated in indirect retaliation for a _bad haircut_." Tyr glanced at both youths and saw the looks of resentment and dislike on their faces. "Now, you have a choice, girl. The lesson is humility: You may wear the wig Loki purchased for you, but it will be cut to the proper length for a shield maiden in training, roughly that of a thrall's or a boy's; or you may keep your own hair, cleaned up a bit, and wear that until it grows out naturally. Choose."

Sif closed her eyes, and shivered a little; no doubt the choice was not an easy one for her to make, and Tyr couldn't say that he really blamed her. She had always been famous for the beauty of her hair, as well as her ferocity on the training grounds. Still, the work Loki had done was a little too complete; she glanced over at Loki with a hateful glare, quickly suppressed, then said, "With your permission, shield mother, I would prefer the wig."

"My son. Would you hand me that wig you are carrying, please?"

Loki had to blink twice and shake his head before the words sank in. "Yes, mother." He passed it to her with trembling hands; the gold strands quivered in the firelight and the faint night breeze.

"Thank you, dear." The queen passed it to Sif; the girl put it on while Loki sneered in the background.

The hair touched her scalp, she smoothed it back with her hands… and just as she began to smile in relief, it turned black.


	16. Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn why Sif's new hair turned black; the dwarfs receive bloody comeuppance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, the second half of this chapter is _graphically violent_. If that's not your thing, skip everything past the line break where Sif and Loki and Thor take their leave, and I'll sum up for you at the end.

Sif must have seen something out of the corner of her eye, or caught the expression on the bystanders' faces, because she freed a lock of hair and pulled it forward; her eyes grew wide when she saw the color.

"Ah," said Mimir. "I wondered if something like this might happen."

To Tyr's eye, it was only her vow to the queen that kept Sif from leaping up and going for Loki's throat; however, the boy himself looked just as confused as anyone else, if perhaps a bit more vindictively pleased with the outcome.

"My son?" Frigga turned. "Know you anything of this?"

"No, Mother," said Loki. "I swear I purchased hair of gold, for all know that Sif's hair is… was…" He shook his head, a little helplessly. "I may not like her much, but even I am not cruel enough to play this trick. I cut her hair off; that was supposed to be the end of it."

Of course, the fact that it wasn't was obvious to all of them, and even though Tyr wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, it was hard to see how Loki wasn't involved somehow. "Seidmadr?" he asked. "You said you expected this?"

"Or something like it," said Mimir. "The boy may have purchased hair of gold, but I suspect he told Ivaldi's sons that the gift was meant for an apology. There were other enchantments worked into the piece, subtle, related to forgiveness and sincerity."

"In what way?" asked Frigga.

"If the gift were given sincerely and accepted in the spirit of forgiveness, I expect it would have remained gold." He passed one hand over the wig, nodding. "Yes… the enchantments are fading already, but if the boy had given it sincerely and the girl retained her anger, the hair would have turned red. If she had accepted it sincerely but he still gave it in anger, it would have turned brown. Since they were both reminded of their quarrel by you, my queen, they were both angry at the moment the wig changed hands from giver to recipient, and therefore the hair turned black."

Sif reached up and tugged, then hissed in pain. "It won't come off."

"Well, no, of course not," said Mimir mildly. "You wanted your hair replaced, and now it has been."

The girl's eyes widened in horror. She tugged harder, but the hair did not loosen, and indeed, Tyr could see where it attached to her scalp as if grown naturally into it.

"Humility," said Frigga gently. "A shield maiden is not obsessed with her appearance, like an uneducated, grasping girl chasing a wealthy husband, with no other attractive qualities to her name besides her looks."

Tyr sighed, and shook his head. "Lord Otrygg. As unexpected as this was, are you yet satisfied with the outcome this evening?"

Otrygg sighed as well. "I am. But my queen, if may… what is to happen to my daughter? I did not expect to lose her this evening, even to such a mistress as you. What are we to do?"

Frigga nodded in acknowledgment. "You and your daughter, my apprentice, may return to your home this evening. I shall permit Sif one month to say her farewells, gather her things, and reconcile her choice with her mother; I know she had her own dreams for her daughter's future and will need time to come to terms with these changes. Is that amenable to you, Lord Otrygg?"

"Indeed, my queen, that is in fact most generous of you. I thank you," he said with a bow.

"In one month's time, then, Sif, you are to present yourself at the servant's gate of the palace, with a written note from your parents commending you to my service. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my—yes, shield mother."

Loki closed his eyes for a second, looking utterly stricken, but said nothing. When he opened his eyes again, Tyr watched him slip into a perfectly neutral expression, as if he were at court once more, and Tyr hid a wince; he would have to speak to the boy later and make sure that he could accept this new development. Make sure he understood that it was less a reward for her horrible behavior and more a lesson in being careful what one wished for.

"Very good. Rise, then, and go with your father. Lord Otrygg." The queen curtseyed, and Otrygg returned it with a more formal bow.

"My queen."

After Sif had staggered to her feet and away, compulsively tugging at her new black tresses while Otrygg held her close, Odin spoke up.

"What of these other gifts? Loki had presented them to my court this morning; surely he does not mean to keep them all now."

"I do not recall you being such a covetous, greedy boy as you are now, sister-son," said Mimir, and Odin's face grew red even under the light of the torches in the glen.

"That is not what I meant, and I suspect you know it. I would appreciate it if you were to cease taking every opportunity to mock the king of Asgard."

"I would appreciate a bit more respect as well, Borsson; perhaps when you have earned yours I shall give it to you."

Loki coughed quietly into his hand, caught between a shaky smile and further upset, as though he couldn't decide whether to be amused or deeply uncomfortable at the treatment his father was receiving.

Tyr decided to rescue him before he could draw the All-Father's wrath. "Did you have any plans for the disposition of your prizes, Loki?"

"Well… some of them," the boy replied. "I'm not sure about the rest, especially with the new information that Seidmadr Mimir gave us at the Thing."

"What have you considered so far?"

Loki shrugged, visibly uncomfortable with so many eyes on him. "The arm-ring I had intended for either Mother or Fa—or the All-Father," he said, "and the weapons to him and Thor as well. But now two of those things are defective or deceitful." He crossed his arms, hugging himself. "After the seidmadr's comments, I still thought to keep the boat for myself, as I'd originally intended, but I no longer know what to do with any of the rest of it. It isn't as if I have any use for a golden boar, after all. I hadn't intended to purchase any of Brokkr and Eitri's items."

"I am not sure if you are aware of such things, but the services of a magical tutor often require payment," said Mimir.

"I—oh." Loki swallowed. "Is there—is there anything here that you would, er, prefer to take for your own, seidmadr?"

"The boar would do nicely, actually," he said with a half-smile. "Njord, the king of Vanaheim, appreciates such wonders, and the value of it would be more than sufficient to cover my fees and living expenses for as long as I dwell here."

Loki blinked. "Are you—forgive me, Seidmadr, but are you certain? I, I am not trying to argue, it's just, you said it was useless and that you wouldn't want to keep such a thing."

"And I won't," said Mimir. "I shall gift it to Njord. It will be enough to soothe his irritation at losing me."

"…All right," said Loki. "Could I—if it isn't too much trouble, could I ask your advice about these others?"

"You already have my advice on the ring," said Mimir with a shrug. "Either return it to Hreidmarr or destroy it. Perhaps with the dwarf smiths' hammer, and make them watch as part of their punishment. As to the hammer itself…"

"I would take it, brother," said Thor. "If you wished to give it to me."

"Are you certain?" Loki bit his lip, winced, and let go. "I admit, I thought of you because they said it would be a mighty weapon in battle, and Mimir said one with great strength could wield it… but if it's defective—I don't want to give you a gift that's broken!"

"I don't know," mused Thor. He leaned over and picked up the hammer, hefting it experimentally, twirling it by the handle once or twice. "There's something about it. Might take some getting used to, but…" He turned, facing away from the group, and threw the hammer out into the darkness. It made a singing noise as it flew through the air, fading into the distance and then growing louder as its magic forced it to return. Thor held his hand out to catch it, and the weapon returned to his palm with a satisfying smack.

He looked over his shoulder at Loki with a grin. "I want it."

Slowly, Loki began to grin too. "Then you shall have it, my brother."

"If I may suggest," said Tyr.

Loki spun back to face him. "Yes, sir?"

"Keep the arm ring intact, for now. We'll send it back to Hreidmarr as evidence of the dwarfs' misdeeds."

Loki nodded. "Of course, that makes sense."

"All that remains is the spear, then," said Mimir.

"I had thought to give that to F—to you," he said, turning to Odin. "If… if you wanted it."

Odin stepped forward, and Loki quickly picked up Gungnir and held it out for him to inspect. "No desire to keep it for yourself?" the king asked, his voice empty of either warmth or anger.

"No, sir," said the boy. "It's—I am still in training, and a weapon like this, that would always strike true… it's an amazing thing, but I would never learn proper technique with it. It should go to someone who can really master it."

And oh, the look of hope in the boy's eyes tore at Tyr's heart. That he should be so desperate for the approval of a man who would likely never give it, or only give it with strings attached… or only hint that he might bestow it _someday,_ if only Loki were good enough.

"Mm." Odin took it from Loki, looked it over carefully, and nodded… then passed it to a servant without a word of thanks to the boy.

Loki's face fell, and Tyr's desire to acquaint the man with his fist returned with a vengeance.

"A kingly gift, indeed," said Mimir acerbically. "One that will always strike its target, no matter _how_ feeble the arm that throws it."

Odin whirled to glare at Mimir, who was glaring back just as fiercely. "If there is something you wish to say to me—"

"There are many things I wish to say to you, sister-son, but most of them can wait. For now, I would remind you that _gratitude_ is considered a kingly virtue. And you _are_ so very proud to be king of Asgard, are you not?"

Odin nearly snarled at him before he mastered himself. With gritted teeth, he gave the barest of nods to the boy he'd raised as his son. "It is, indeed, a fine spear. The sons of Ivaldi crafted well."

Tyr couldn't help but notice there was no acknowledgment there of just how heavily the boy had paid for his purchases, nor even that he wasn't obligated to gift his father with anything.

" _You_ _'re welcome,"_ said Mimir.

"…Thank you," said Odin. Stiffly, and with poor grace.

Loki clasped his hands together tightly, and bowed low; Tyr could not see what expression was on his face, and was sure Loki had meant it that way.

"Thor! You've been away from the palace long enough today. Escort your mother home."

"I—yes, Father." Thor turned to look helplessly at Loki, who looked back at him with the same lost expression Tyr had already seen too much of this day.

"This is not goodbye," he said quietly, stepping closer to them both. "It is farewell. You will see each other again, if not quite so often as you did before. You are brothers, and will continue to be brothers as long as you both put effort into remaining close. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." "Yes, weaponsmaster."

"Good. Now, say your farewells. It is time to part, if only temporarily."

The two brothers looked at each other one last time, then embraced each other tight. If they held on longer than was typical, and if there were perhaps muffled sniffles between the two of them, at least no one present had the poor tact as to comment on it.

"Loki," said Tyr after they finally broke apart, "it would be best if you returned to Vingólf now as well. I am sure you and Mimir could use the journey to acquaint yourselves with one another, and in the meantime, you and Thor will share the same path until you reach the main road across Idavoll. If you leave now, you may yet travel together for a time."

Loki took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, looking across the clearing to where Thor and Frigga were mounting their horses and gathering their entourage. "Yes, sir. I'll do that. Thank you, sir."

As he stepped away toward his own mount, Mimir leaned in close. "That was kindly done," he said softly.

"I am not Odin," Tyr replied, just as softly.

The two men studied each other in the flickering torchlight, and whatever Mimir saw seemed to satisfy him. "I look forward to becoming acquainted with you as well, then, General," he said, then turned and left without a backward glance.

* * *

Finally the young people were all gone, the lanterns of their parties still visible from a distance as they bobbed along across the plain.

"I admit I am surprised you are staying for this," Tyr said to Odin, as he began to rummage through the wagons for the things he would need. "After all, you allowed them to harm the boy this morning."

"I am well aware," said Odin. "Yet I am king, and it is my duty to see this done. I will not leave it to another."

"Mm." He pulled out four daggers, two empty wooden crates, and a small bundle he'd had his men search for among the dwarfs' belongings earlier that day. In his belt pouch he still had the scrolls from Dvalin and Hreidmarr, and he'd be sure to put them to use if the little piglets decided to protest too much before he began.

They wouldn't be able to protest much after that.

"Remove their gags," he said casually, walking over to the trunk of the great ash tree. One of the warriors was quick to obey him.

"This is _your_ fault," rasped one of the dwarfs, glaring at the other. " _You_ were the one who wanted the wager. _I_ told you it was stupid, _I_ told you not to drag a prince into this—but _you_ decided—"

"Shut up," said Tyr, kicking him in the stomach so hard that he retched. "Go ahead and puke now, little vermin; you'll likely want your stomach empty for what I'm going to do to you."

"Y-you can't kill us," said the other dwarf, as his brother heaved and spat.

"Kill you? No, of course not. You didn't kill His Highness, after all." He tilted his head and allowed a bloodthirsty smile to spread across his face, knowing that the torchlight would make him look positively demonic to the huddled dwarfs. "In fact, I'll hardly lay a finger on you. The punishment must fit the crime, after all."

"What are you—" said the dwarf… only to choke as Tyr opened the bundle in his hands and revealed the awl and the enchanted needle and thread they had used on Loki earlier. "No."

"Who said anything about killing you?" Tyr quoted, and watched as both Odin's and the dwarfs' eyes grew wide. "Nevertheless, your heads are _mine._ _"_

"Y-y-you have not the skill!" one of the dwarfs shrieked.

"You said you would not lay a finger on us."

"I did say that, didn't I," said Tyr. "And I meant it. Ullr, unbind that one's hands." As the man moved to obey, Tyr went on, "No, you're going to be the one to stitch your brother's mouth shut. And then it'll be your turn. I suggest you do a careful job of it."

This dwarf was the one who had taunted Loki during the Thing, and Tyr had promised himself that that dwarf would go first instead of second, but Tyr wanted him to _hurt_.

He might be known as an even-tempered man, but he was Aesir, after all. A little bit of bloodlust was part of his nature, and these two had more than earned it.

"But… please. Please, this was never my idea," said the dwarf he'd kicked.

"That didn't stop you from coming along to Asgard, nor sharing in the accusations you hurled against him in court this morning, nor from holding my foster son's head steady while your brother mutilated him. If you truly had no wish to participate, do you know what you could have done?" Tyr leaned down to snarl in the dwarf's face. " _Not. Participated._ I never saw anyone holding a blade to your throat, _piglet._ _"_

The dwarf's face contorted with rage at the insult, one of the worst things a dwarf could say to another. Even with his hands bound, he lunged at Tyr, who just straightened up and backhanded him into the dirt. The dwarf glared up at him, chest heaving.

"You brought this on yourselves," said Tyr. "None of us would have given a damn about your rivalry with Ivaldi; you could have even offered legitimate custom to His Highness or the All-Father himself, but instead you decided to drag an innocent boy of Asgard into your little feud, and now you'll pay the price for that." He nodded toward the needle and thread, where he'd dropped them into the dirt, and tossed the awl dwn to join them. "Now. Pick those up and shut your brother's mouth for him, won't you? And I'd hurry. You don't want his hands too numb to do good work when it's your turn, hm?"

So the scared brother began to struggle and squirm, until Tyr reached over and lifted him up by his hair, then nodded to one of the warriors to take him and hold him steady. The vicious brother, the one who'd sneered at Loki and been pleased to do all this before, picked up the needle and thread and advanced.

"Brokkr. Brother! Don't—please, you don't want—"

"It's this or he kills us," said the first dwarf. He risked a glare up at Tyr. "Isn't that right, honorless swine?"

"Oh no," said the general. "I promised I wouldn't kill you. If I did that, I'd have to arrange to haul your carcasses back to Nidavellir rather than leaving them here to smell up _our_ realm, and to be honest I don't want to be bothered with the extra work. So you'll walk out of here, whether you do this or not." He shrugged, and went on, "You might not have your hands, your tongues, or your eyes, but you'll walk out of here, I do promise you that."

Brokkr gulped, and shared a look with Eitri, who was visibly shaking even as the warrior's grip held his head perfectly still. "Get it over with," said Eitri.

Tyr was almost impressed with the little mud-crawler; he flinched badly with each pierce of the awl through his lips, and began to whimper and pant from the pain before his brother was halfway through, but he managed to endure the pain with relative stoicism. Although from the way Brokkr's expression didn't change, not in sympathy nor regret, Tyr got the impression that Eitri was probably used to being abused by the little monster tormenting him now.

Dvalin did suggest that while Eitri was the master smith, Brokkr was the one whose envy burned hottest. Tyr couldn't be bothered to feel sympathy for him; perhaps next time he wouldn't fall into line so quickly, and might actually stand up to his brother before he got dragged into something stupid.

Finally Eitri's mouth was stitched shut, and the muffled noises he made reminded Tyr enough of the ones he'd heard from Loki that it only made him angrier at the dwarf who yet remained unharmed.

They left Brokkr's hands unbound, and took two more warriors to hold his arms back and his head steady. When they untied Eitri, he swayed on his feet, again like Loki had, but Tyr only shoved him forward to take the thread from Brokkr's hands.

"Don't you dare, you little coward," spat the other dwarf. "You _touch_ me and I'll make you regret it once I'm free, you little—"

Tyr rolled his eyes, sighed, and smacked the scum across the face twice, one forehand and one backswing. "Shut up." He nodded to Eitri, who was standing there trying to squeeze feeling back into his trembling hands. "As you said: Get on with it."

Eitri, of course, did a much worse job than Brokkr had. He might have been the more talented of the two smiths, but his hands were numbed from being bound so tightly, and trembled from shock and fear. He dropped the awl twice, eyes rolling in terror as he knelt to pick it back up, tears rolling down his cheeks and blurring his vision as he worked. His face was a mess of snot and blood by the time he finished.

Naturally, it didn't help that Brokkr refused to do the sensible thing and _hold still_ while his brother worked, instead kicking out and writhing, spitting curses until his mouth was sealed too far shut and then just growling incoherently like the little beast he was. At one point he did a duck-and-twist that almost broke the warriors' grip, so Tyr backhanded him again, right across his half-sewn mouth, and he screamed and went limp. After that, Tyr stood behind him himself and held the creature's head still, cuffing him every now and again when he wriggled too much.

The dwarfs were both moaning, bloody wrecks by the time Eitri finished, and all Tyr could think was, _Good._

He let go of Brokkr's head and shoved him hard onto the ground. "Now then," he said, waiting for both dwarfs to stare up at him through glassy, dazed eyes. He walked over to the empty wooden crates sitting nearby and kicked them so they tumbled across the grass to land at the dwarfs' feet. "Pick those up."

There were no handles nor protruding edges to make them easy to hold, forcing the dwarfs to splay their hands wide along the ends of the boxes.

"Your king said that he could not condone any harm coming to citizens of his realm, and demanded that Asgard pay wergild if it turned out we had already done something to retaliate for what you did to one of our citizens. So these crates will carry the gold and silver that will pay for what we've just done to your miserable hides, and _you_ will carry them back to Nidavellir. Lord Hrodi here will make sure you carry them all the way to the king himself, and set them down at Hreidmarr's feet.

"And one last thing." He bared his teeth viciously. "Let's make sure you _don_ _'t drop them_." In one fluid motion, Tyr pulled two of the daggers he'd brought and plunged them into the backs of Eitri's hands, all the way through the wood of the crate until the blades were visible inside and the hilts were pressed tight against Eitri's hands. Before Brokkr could register what Tyr had done, he'd spun and repeated the move on the other dwarf's hands with the second pair of daggers.

Both dwarfs tried to cry out—stifled animal noises that did not carry past the circle of torches. The pain dropped Eitri to his knees, and the attempt to scream tore at the stitches in Brokkr's mouth so that his chin dripped with fresh blood.

"Don't puke, now," said Tyr cheerfully. "You do that and you might drown in it, and then I'll have to pay extra. Or maybe I should cut a hole in your cheeks, or under your chins, to let it spew out, what do you think?"

Eitri was shaking his head frantically, struggling to get up without the use of his hands, while Brokkr moaned and his eyes rolled up in his head.

Tyr turned on his heel and stalked over to the wagons, where the gold was waiting that he'd had his treasurer withdraw that morning, while Loki was still recovering in his old chambers. The small group of witnesses still present parted in front of him like wheat in a field; his face must have looked fearsome indeed for the way they were staring at him.

He jerked his chin at the warriors holding the two dwarfs upright. "Bring them."

Eitri seemed to already regret his part in things, and might not have wanted to go along with them in the first place, so Tyr was merciful and filled his crate relatively quickly, working around the blades so that they didn't jostle too much against the dwarf's hands. He was whimpering and sobbing and an overall wreck, anyway, by the time Tyr was finished, hunched over the crate that now had to weigh at least twenty pounds, blood staining the sides of the crate and dripping into the grass at his feet.

Brokkr, though… Tyr smiled. Yanked the dwarf forward by his hair, leaned down in his face, and said, "I'm going to enjoy your pain, just as much as you enjoyed Loki's, you twisted little mud-crawling piglet."

He dropped a handful of coins into the crate, making sure they each bounced off the blade pinning the dwarf's right hand to the crate. When Brokkr tried to get away, Tyr came around behind him and kicked his knees out from under him, then as he knelt there Tyr dropped another handful of coins over his head and onto the blade piercing his left hand. Each coin bounced and chimed merrily, and sent vibrations through the blade and into the dwarf's hand so that he went pale with the agony of it.

Tyr filled his crate slowly, handful by handful, watching the sweat break out on the creature's face, occasionally thumping the crate with his fist to help the heap of coins settle. In the bottom, among the first handfuls, he'd included the awl and the enchanted thread the craftsmen had brought with them. On the very top of the heap, he nestled the arm ring, Draupnir.

He took the needle and wove it carefully through the stitches on Brokkr's lips, where it shone like the tribal decorations of tropical Alfheim.

"Get up."

It took the dwarf three tries to stagger to his feet.

"Lord Hrodi, have you provisions for your journey? It is not far to the Bifrost, but I suspect it will be a bit of a slow walk for you. Would you like to borrow a mount, or a wagon?"

General Dvalin's assistant stood nearby, his arms folded impassively. "I have all that I need, great General, yet I thank you. I shall be pleased to tell my lord and my liege of the hospitality and generosity I was shown by my hosts while I lingered here."

Tyr nodded. "And have you any quarrel with what I have done here tonight?"

"No, great General. The traitors, Brokkr and Eitri, yet live. That is more than they deserve, but I think my king will be pleased at your mercy."

One of them whimpered behind him, and Tyr turned long enough to offer that one an ugly smile. They all knew there had been little of mercy in his actions here.

"Very well, then. I shall wish you a safe journey; these warriors share part of their journey back with you, as they return to their barracks, so you shall have escort and company in the dark."

"You are most kind, great General, but I am a dwarf and do not fear the night." Hrodi's teeth flashed as he smiled. "Indeed it is a most pleasant evening, and I shall enjoy the journey greatly."

"I am pleased to hear it," said Tyr, and they exchanged the formal salute Tyr had seen earlier that day, before Hrodi turned and offered the same, a bit deeper, to the All-Father. To the disgraced pair moaning behind him, Tyr said only, "Start walking. The sooner you reach your king, the sooner you can find someone who might be willing to heal you. That should be enough incentive, hm?"

He made sure to give them both a hearty slap on the back as they stumbled past him, weaving like drunkards as they began the long trek back to their world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Graphic violence. Tyr had each dwarf sew the other one's mouth shut, with the threat that if they didn't do it he'd take their eyes, tongues, and hands but leave them alive. Then he gave them each an empty wooden crate to hold and stabbed daggers through their hands into the wood so that they couldn't let go of them, and proceeded to fill the crates up with gold and silver as wergild.
> 
> Moving on.
> 
> Vocabulary: a number of people asked what a nithing was, last chapter; if you're curious, you can read the comments I left, or visit Wikipedia where I get most of my information when I'm world building.
> 
> Also, I really enjoyed the various guesses people made concerning why Sif's hair turned color, and found all your different reactions very interesting. Thanks for that, and for all the reviews.


	17. Argument

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Odin and Tyr have a heated discussion, and are overheard.

One by one, the remaining witnesses turned and left, most nodding to Tyr or the All-Father. A few reassured the general that they would be sure to report that his punishment had not exceeded the bounds of justice, and he nodded solemnly to them in turn.

He was still angry, but his rage no longer burned quite so hot as it had.

Odin stood and watched as Tyr made sure the wagon was ready to travel and hitched it to his horse. Behind them, the warriors and witnesses were extinguishing torches and clearing the space beneath the ancient ash tree, but neither the general nor the king needed to remain behind for that.

Finally they set off for Vingólf, riding side by side in silence for several long minutes. They rode in darkness as well; most of the courtiers preferred to light their way with lanterns, but Tyr was an old soldier through and through, and could not bring himself to make such a target out of himself or disturb his night vision in such a manner.

"You are quite protective of a boy you only adopted this very morning," said Odin after a while.

"We are not yet behind the walls of my home, All-Father," replied Tyr neutrally. The unspoken tradition between them allowed for arguments to take place in Tyr's tent on the battlefield, or Tyr's home here in Asgard; anywhere else, however, and they were a king and his vassal general, and nothing more.

"Indeed," said Odin. He sighed heavily. "And will asking about his new seidr tutor violate the bounds of our arrangement?"

Tyr shrugged, the motion barely visible in the darkness. "As part of the typical arrangements I make for any fosterling, I looked into his educational requirements. Seeing that he lacked a seidr tutor, I requested that my valet aid me in finding one."

"Your valet. _Hoenir._ "

"Mm." Tyr shrugged again. "I was unaware that Mimir the Wise still lived, same as anyone else in Asgard, and only learned the truth when he arrived here and was introduced to me."

Odin grunted, the tone skeptical, but said nothing more on the topic. Instead they discussed inconsequential things: the weather in the northern provinces and whether there would be a good harvest, rumors of marauders establishing yet another foothold in Vanaheim, that sort of thing.

Eventually they reached the old dirt pile, and Tyr actually heard Odin give a long sigh, as if relieved to drop the burdens of kingship for a little while. Tyr supposed he couldn't blame him for that much, at least. He had no particular quarrel with the king, really; on the other hand, he did still want to pound the _father_ into the dirt for his treatment of Loki.

Hoenir showed them into Tyr's study, as usual, and poured strong brandy from Alfheim into cut crystal glasses. He made sure the fire was burning well and that there was wood in the hod, and then took himself out.

Odin, as was their tradition, removed his golden robes of office, so that he sat in darkened leathers not unlike those Tyr wore. They sipped their drinks in silence for a long few moments, while Tyr ordered his thoughts.

Finally, the general spoke. Calmly, slowly, the words dropped from his lips like stones into a well: "What in the name of Hela's cold tits were you thinking, you cruel old bastard?"

Odin's eyebrow raised. "Not your usual opening thought," he said mildly.

"Not your usual degree of stupidity."

"Stupidity?"

"What else would you call it? It didn't take long for me to get all the information from Nidavellir that I needed to know those dwarfs were not to be trusted. There wasn't even much effort involved. You were more interested in _humiliating your son_ than you were in acting like a king should."

"Hm." Odin reached for his drink, scowling. "You say the dwarfs are not trustworthy, but neither is Loki."

"Not so. _You_ don't trust him, and I've yet to grasp why. Any fool can see the loyalty and the love in his eyes whenever he looks at you. Or they used to. I imagine after tonight you'll have managed to finally kill that."

"You are the one who stole my son from me," Odin growled.

"Setting aside that he's a boy and not a _possession_ , I didn't steal a damn thing. You threw him away. You've been trying to do so for years now, for no reason that I can discern, and I only regret not speaking up to stop you sooner." He leaned forward in his seat and pushed his elbows up onto his desk. "Seriously, Borsson, answer my question: what were you _thinking_?"

"I was thinking to teach the brat some discipline," said Odin. "A boy wielding seidr is unnatural. An embarrassment. If he won't put that aside, then at least he'll learn to mind his tongue around his betters."

"Unnatural, eh? Mimir doesn't seem to think so."

"Mimir," scoffed Odin.

"Mimir the _Wise_ ," said Tyr. "I don't imagine he earned that name by clubbing his problems over the head."

"He earned it by pretending he knew more than he did, and letting people assume it was truth. He is a liar and a sneak."

"You and I both know there's more than one of those in his family," said Tyr, and Odin glared at him. "Don't you usually call it statecraft?"

"This from the man who _does_ solve his problems by clubbing them over the head."

"I solve _your_ problems that way, because it's my job, and we're not talking about me," said Tyr calmly. "We're talking about you mistreating a son to such a degree that half of Asgard thinks you've gone mad and may no longer be fit for the throne."

Odin's scowl fell away as he blinked in surprise. "They what?"

"As we left the city today, more than one man offered me his sword, Odin."

Now the king's face lit with rage. "Their names."

Tyr snorted, and rolled his eyes. "Fortunately none of them were stupid enough to give them to me," he said, downing his own drink and reaching for the decanter to pour another.

"As if you don't already know them," sneered Odin. "Give me their names."

"No."

"I am your king—"

"Not here, you're not, and you damn well know it. Otherwise what is the point of our little ritual, hm? You come here when you need a dose of reality, when the air up on that high seat of yours gets too thin and addles your wits."

"And you think my wits are addled now?"

"You're the one who decided to come to me, Odin," said Tyr. "I'd say you already knew something was wrong; at the very least, you wanted to hear what I would have to say after taking Loki from you so publicly. And I really don't care that your motive for coming here was to pout and rage over losing one of your _toys_ ; you'll get what I always give you, every time you set foot within my walls."

"You stole my son—"

"I _stopped you_ from allowing him to be harmed even worse than he already was!" Tyr pounded his fist on the desk, letting his rage come to the fore. "You've mocked and scorned the boy for _years,_ and worse than that, you've encouraged other people to do so too. You've made him the court's collective scapegoat, to the point that they were willing to allow _this_ , and snicker behind their hands while they did. I defend Asgard, the golden Realm Eternal, not a pack of _barbarians_ willing to watch a boy be tortured for _sport._ _"_

"Yes, you said as much this morning," said Odin, looking down his nose at the general. "You think it was sport to punish the boy? He never learns—"

"Because you never _teach_ him, do you?" demanded Tyr. "You punish him without even telling him why. You treat him as though he is dung on the bottom of your shoe, something to be scraped off and discarded, when all he knows is that he once had your affection and now does not. What did he do to deserve that from you, hm?"

Odin bared his teeth, but did not answer right away, instead getting up to pace the room. "The boy is a threat," he said finally.

Tyr highly doubted it. "To what?"

"Thor's ascension."

"Nonsense. Try again."

"It is _not_ nonsense!" Odin whirled and pointed at him. "You yourself said that people were offering you their swords."

"And are you truly so blind as to blame _him_ for that? What did you expect? If you're willing to publicly mistreat your own son, who can say that you're any fit leader for the rest of Asgard?" Tyr leaned back in his seat and folded his arms, glaring. "You don't get to blame the boy for your own rotten behavior."

"That boy is a conniving, sneaking, lying little usurper, who demands attention he doesn't deserve!"

" _That boy_ , as you call him, is a _boy_ , and deserves a bit more than a mere pittance of affection from the man who dares call himself his father!"

"He brought this on himself!"

"How—how, _precisely_?" Tyr stood now, facing the man down, feeling the heat rise to his face as it was already in Odin's. "You stand there and you explain to me how an innocent _boy_ brought on himself the disgust and scorn of a man who claimed to love him. You _explain to me_ what he could possibly have done to deserve being _mutilated for entertainment_ , you vicious, self-centered old jackal!"

"You're too close to this," sneered Odin.

"And you're not close _enough._ _"_

"You look at every boy with sad eyes and a woeful tale, and you see _yourself_ as a child!"

"And you look at _your son_ and see some sort of damned pawn to use or throw away at your leisure!" Tyr roared. "What is the matter, Odin? He was _acceptable_ to you until he developed seidr? Or was it just his ability to think for himself and ask questions, making himself not easy enough to manipulate and _mold_ the way you can Thor?"

"The boy—"

"No, I know what it was. You can't _punish Bestla_ for leaving you, so you'll punish Loki instead, and throw him away so you can say it was your decision and not _hers_."

Odin snarled and lunged at Tyr, but the general saw him coming and threw one solid punch at his jaw. Odin staggered back, stunned more from the surprise of the blow than the strength of it.

Tyr might hang in the morning, but in the meantime that was immensely satisfying.

"You're an idiot," he said to his liege lord. "Selfish, ego-driven, arrogant, and cold. Hateful to one who never did a thing to deserve it."

"He did deserve it. Everything I have done or said to him, he brought upon himself."

"You have yet to say _how_ in any way that holds up to scrutiny," said Tyr. "It's only your own irrational desire to control everyone around you, choosing Thor as your golden perfect child to mold in your own image, and choosing Loki to bear the scorn and guilt of everything you do or Thor _might_. Whatever horrible thing you perpetrate on the boy will somehow always manage to be his fault. Whatever he does that doesn't fit your _image_ of who he ought to be will be treated as some sort of crime against _you personally_ , and be punished. It doesn't matter that he has magic; if he didn't have a drop of seidr, you'd find something else to despise him for."

Odin glared at him, breathing quickly, but said nothing.

"I thought better of you than this." Tyr shook his head in disgust. "You don't love the boy and you never did. You don't love either of them, except insofar as they serve your vision." He scoffed, and went on, "You love them as little as you love your wife. There's a reason there are people beginning to whisper that you've been king too long, Odin. You've forgotten what the words _love_ and _care_ even mean."

"A king has no room for such things if he is to rule well," began Odin, but Tyr just turned his back and waved his hand in the air to stop him.

"You use whatever excuse you like, Borsson," he said. "You always get like this, if you've gone too long without examining your own nature. Sooner or later, the man disappears behind the face of the king, and what is left is little better than a monster. As long as someone benefits you, you keep them. As soon as they don't, you throw them away. The only reason you haven't had me killed before now is because you usually have the strength of character to pull the man back out from under the mask the king must wear, and if not then at least you know the uprising that would occur in response. It helps that you also know I have no interest in your throne. Or in a civil war, which is the only reason I haven't taken Thor from you today as well."

"Thor is loved—"

"No, he's merely well-treated, _valued_ , because he is still useful to you. Loki got old enough you could no longer treat him as a cute little _pet;_ he started thinking for himself, started disrupting your vision of how your world ought to be, and you despised him for it."

"He's an ungrateful wretch; he owes me for all I've given him."

"He owes you not a damn thing for being _your son_ ," said Tyr wearily. "You owe _him._ As his father, you _owe_ him. It is your duty and your responsibility, every bit as sacred as the oaths you swore when you took up the scepter. Why do you think your title is All- _Father_? Why do you think there are whispers now, and people offering me their swords? It is because you publicly failed as a father to _one boy_ , and now everyone is wondering whether or not you can possibly be _All-_ Father to _them._ _"_

"When they were children, I told them both that they were born to be kings, but I have made my decision on who will succeed me. Thor is to one day be the king that Asgard needs! I'll not have that boy jeopardizing my son's birthright."

"They're both your sons—"

"Not anymore."

Tyr bared his teeth and growled wordlessly before he could pull his temper back under control. "If you want your firstborn son to follow you whether he is worthy or not, then Thor takes the throne because he is elder—and Loki is no threat to that. If you want to _follow the law_ , as your father did and his father before him, then whether or not Thor becomes king is up to the Thing to decide, and Loki is no threat to that, either! If anything threatens Thor's potential reign, it will be his own decisions and his own stupidity. And in that scenario, putting the decision before the Thing, having Loki by his side as an adviser would make him a _stronger_ candidate, not a lesser. But you won't see that. All you will do is look at Loki and see a boy who _might_ grow into a man better suited for the throne than your warrior son."

"He is conniving—"

"And so are you."

"He is _not my blood_!"

"And that won't matter a whit to the Thing and you know it!" Tyr was nearly ready to punch the man again to get it through his thick skull. "Any man can ascend who is worthy! That is the law! It is only luck and tradition that you ascended after your father, who ascended after his. The only threat that Loki makes to you or anyone else is that people look upon him and think of how _you_ treated him. If you didn't want to deal with those consequences, then you should have treated him the way a son deserves to be treated by his father… and if you knew you couldn't do that, if you _knew from the beginning_ that you would treat him like some sort of pawn, then by every ancestor you should have left the boy where you found him!"

Tyr's voice was raised enough that he almost didn't hear the little sound behind the door to his study.

Damn.

"Who's there?" he called.

There was no answer at first, so he repeated the call. Finally, slowly, the door swung open… and there stood Loki, his eyes wide and face pale.

Damn, damn, damn.

"Found?" he asked. His voice was barely a squeak. "F- _found?_ What do you… what—"

"You're not my son. You're not my _blood_ ," said Odin viciously, and smiled when the boy's knees buckled, forcing him to catch himself against the door frame. " _You_ _'re not even Aesir_."

That smile finally snapped Tyr's temper, and he spun, rounded on Odin with the full force of his momentum behind him, and punched the man again, this time hard enough to send him crashing into the bookshelf before he collapsed to the floor, his one eye rolling dazedly in his head.

 _"Speak_ to my son again and I will put you in the healing wing, _king or not_ ," snarled Tyr, then turned back to Loki.

Wait.

 _Found?_ the boy had asked. And he looked utterly shocked.

"You… you didn't know this?" he asked, and his eyes widened as the boy began to shake. "Loki?"

"I'm… I'm not even…" The boy staggered backward, panting as if he'd run for miles. "I'm not…"

Tyr stepped forward, but before he could reach out, Loki spun on his heel and took off running, as if all of Hela's wolves were after him.

* * *

 

"Damn you, Odin," Tyr breathed. Then, louder, he called, "Hoenir!"

The man appeared in a rush, wringing his hands together. "I saw him, my lord, but he's too fast for me. He did not go up the stairs, though."

"He doesn't know the terrain well—if he leaves Vingólf, the hillside could be his death."

"I'll alert the servants, of course," said Hoenir.

"Talk to Mimir, as well. Perhaps his seidr can find the boy's."

"At once, my lord."

* * *

 

Odin was only just beginning to struggle to his feet when Tyr stepped back inside his study. It was all Tyr could do not to knock him back down again.

"I trust you are satisfied, Cruel Deceiver," he spat, using the nickname Odin had earned on the battlefields of Jotunheim long ago.

"Don't blame me," Odin said, checking for blood on his lip. "The boy is a coward. Always has been. Effeminate and strange, and now he can't even handle the truth."

"Shut up," snapped Tyr. "That boy endured torments today that not even you could face with equanimity, and _received_ them through the betrayal of the father he loved. Tell me what is cowardly about that. Tell me how he is not yet a man, and has faced the willful cruelty of those who have a sacred duty to protect and care for him, yet is a coward when he dares show that it _hurts_ him when you do that. You vicious madman, if it did not mean a civil war I would bring you before the Thing myself, tomorrow, and have you declared unfit to rule."

That finally got Odin's attention, and he stared at Tyr as though this were somehow completely unexpected.

"You are become a tyrant," Tyr went on, "malicious and sadistic. What you do to your own family, you will one day do to Asgard. You are _not_ the man to whom I swore my own oaths, not when I entered the service and not when I became general. You are unworthy of your crown, Odin Borsson, and I think you will be shocked to find that if I wanted it, I could have it from you in less than a day's deliberation. Unlike you, I still serve Asgard and not my own petty desires."

"I am a father and a king."

"No, you are spiteful and small and think yourself great, and you build your perceived greatness on the bowed backs of others. You prize your wife for her obedience and not her intelligence, and forget that she is yours only because of a deal that Bor arranged in order to end a war. You prize your elder son for his general gullibility and his adherence to the Aesir image of perfection, and not for any true worthiness for the throne, for if he _had_ that then he would be a challenge to _you_ , and you would never tolerate that. Your younger son is a rare gem among men, and he is not yet even fully grown, but he will not be shaped by you into anything other than what he is, and therefore you prize him not at all."

"He is rebellious—"

"Against the likes of you? Yes! And well he should be."

 _"He is only alive because of me and would do better to show a little gratitude for it!"_ Odin roared, and Tyr shoved him back again until he fetched back up against the wall, then grabbed him by his collar and slammed him into it hard.

_"How can he show any gratitude for something he apparently has no idea even happened?!"_

Odin shoved him back, panting, his eye wide, and Tyr reached out and smacked his hands away.

"You colossal idiot. He has no idea he was not born of your union with Frigga, does he? You couldn't even be bothered to tell him. And yet you try to convince me that you ever loved him? You are a fool. And now you rage against him for failing to do something he could not _possibly_ know was expected of him, and wonder why he fails to do it. You are not merely a fool, Odin. You're an _imbecile_."

"He is right." The two men whirled to see Mimir standing in the doorway, rigid with anger and his eyes and hands actually glowing with faint, pale blue fire. "A prideful imbecile," he said, "and I for one am ashamed to claim you as my blood."

"Loki is as freakish as you," said Odin.

"Then I fail to see why you are disappointed in him; unless you are not disappointed in him at all, but in yourself for failing to be like the rest of your family. You carry too much of Bor's blood, Odin, and act too much like Buri. You always have, and you've never learned better."

"You scorned and looked down on me for not being more like you," sneered Odin. "That does not make me inferior."

"You judged yourself," said Mimir tiredly, "and ignored my reassurances, and soothed your own self-loathing by coming to loathe others instead. Even now, you refuse to see worth in anything that is not like you, or does not fit your vision of how the world ought to be."

"That is not—"

"Save your breath, sister-son," said Mimir, tossing one hand into the air. Blue foxfire trailed and shimmered in the air behind the gesture. "You have not changed in all these millennia, save to grow even more entrenched in your foolish ways. You sent me away because I offered truth you did not wish to hear. You do not wish to hear it now, and I in my turn have no particular desire to hear your blustering.

"I have found him," he said to Tyr. "There is an ancient shrine, on the hillside…"

"I know it well," said Tyr, gathering his cloak.

"You'll want to hurry," said Mimir. "I worry for his state of mind."

He was not the only one to worry. "What of him?" Tyr asked, indicating Odin with a tilt of his head.

"I will make sure he does not interfere. My nephew and I are overdue for a bit of a _talk._ "

Tyr would think about what that might mean some other time. For now, he had a foster-son to find… and possibly to save.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I trust that was as enjoyable for you all to read as it was for me to write. :)
> 
> Happy New Year to one and all. I adore you, and your comments sometimes are the reason I get out of bed. Or, you know, deal with insomnia by checking my phone at 4am because _there might be a new review_. Yeah. I'm a sap like that.
> 
> Cheers!


	18. Shrine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki runs; Tyr chases him, and they talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my New Year's response was so mind-blowing I was answering reviews for hours at a time, and thought I would never catch up. I'm _still_ getting reviews nearly a week later, which. They usually taper off after the first day or two. Holy SMOKES, everyone! Thank you. It means the world to know that this fic is entertaining so many people. So here; have another chapter.

He stepped into the courtyard still throwing his cloak on over his shoulders. The night had grown late, and chill, and now his breath fogged the air. Mist was rising beyond the gate, making the trail especially treacherous for anyone who did not know it.

Mimir said the boy had made it to the shrine; hopefully he was unharmed, and would have sense enough to stay there.

"My lord!" He turned to see Astrid hurrying toward him, Hoenir not far behind her. "You may need these."

She held out a satchel and a bundle, which shook out to reveal Loki's cloak. "There is food and drink in there, with a few bandages and a healing stone, just in case," she said.

Hoenir caught up to them as he was pulling the bag's strap over his shoulder. "Do you wish for anyone else to come, my lord?" he asked, clutching his side and panting a little.

"Best not to," said Tyr. "Or, no. Have someone bring mounts; leave them outside the shrine and then return. If we are still inside, we are not to be disturbed."

"It shall be done, my lord."

"You will not ride?" asked Astrid, as Hoenir began shouting and waking the grooms in the stable.

"Not now," said Tyr. "I've no wish to frighten the boy into running, not in this dark. I'll be able to travel more swiftly than he, and unlikely to break my neck."

"Is there anything else I can prepare, my lord?"

"You've done enough, Astrid, thank you. Have the night servants keep an eye out in case he returns, and if he's not with me, send word to the shrine. Other than that, you are dismissed."

"Of course, my lord."

* * *

 

Tyr set off in a steady, ground-eating jog; his soldiers in the past had called it his wolf-pace, because while the general was not the fastest man on the field and never had been, he could outlast damn near anybody. The fog dimmed the light from Asgard's nebulae, but he knew this terrain like the backs of his hands, and the path was lit well enough once his eyes adjusted to it that he did not need to slow his pace. Soon enough, Vingólf was behind him, and there was only the sound of his breath and the sight of it adding to the fog surrounding him, and the sound of his footsteps on the soft ground beside the road, to accompany Tyr as he ran.

Mimir had said that he feared for Loki's mental state; that could mean anything. How much had he overheard? How might he react to it? The boy was always thinking, Tyr knew that much, and he knew as well that a mind as active as Loki's was tended to fill in what it did not know with imaginative speculation. The general had already seen that earlier today; Loki had been convinced that Odin had as good as sold him to Tyr for the purpose of breaking him into a more obedient shape. Now he'd watched his mother appear to trade her son for a daughter who despised him, and overheard who knew what from Tyr's conversation with Odin, before Odin himself had cut the boy off at the knees.

Vicious bastard.

Tyr winced, and ran faster.

* * *

 

He was panting only a little by the time he found the shrine, little more than a darker shadow among the gloom beneath the trees, set back from the road perhaps a dozen paces. He stepped under their canopy and into the darkness, listening carefully as he caught his breath.

At first, all was quiet, but after a bit he thought he heard the boy's voice, soft but distressed, and he stepped into the doorway of the tiny building.

It was nearly pitch black inside, the only glimmer of light coming from two high slit windows which served to illuminate the altar at sunrise and sunset; now, at night, only the dimmest gleam from the night sky filtered through. Even Tyr needed to take a moment to let his eyes adjust, and when he did, he could only barely make out the shadowy shape of Loki, pacing back and forth behind the altar, muttering to himself.

He spun, still pacing, and there was just barely enough light to glint off the edge of a blade, held in Loki's hand.

"Come on, come on… stupid, useless… this is—" He took a deep breath, too shaky for Tyr's liking. "Try it again." Another deep breath. " _Work_ , damn you!"

"What are you trying to do?" he asked softly, and the dark shadow that was Loki jolted as though a snake had leaped out at him. "It's only me," he added, stepping a bit further inside so what light there was from the doorway would show him a little better.

"Why are you here?" asked Loki, his tone fearful before it changed to a sneer. "Changed your mind about keeping me? Come to drag me back to _Odin_?"

"I thought you might want answers," said Tyr. "And I am not dragging you anywhere."

"Answers. Ha. No one wants to give me answers unless it's an easier way to be cruel to me," said Loki.

"I am not Odin. That man doesn't deserve you and never did," said Tyr. "I knew he mistreated you; I had no idea how badly."

"Yes, well, people can do whatever they like to their _pets_ , can't they?"

"Actually, they can't," he replied mildly, feeling his way a little closer in the dark. "Can I ask why you have a knife?"

"None of your business, _sir._ _"_ The words were nearly a growl from the deepest gloom in the corner of the shrine.

Tyr could understand bravado, but even now he would not tolerate that level of disrespect. "Loki."

"Why should I tell you anything? No one ever tells _me_ anything!"

Tyr nodded, though the boy probably couldn't see it. "You're angry—"

Bitter laughter in the dark. "Does that _surprise_ you?"

"—and you have every right to be." The pacing shadow froze, and was silent, so Tyr went on. "You feel lost, I expect; so much has changed for you this day."

"Everything I ever knew was a _lie!_ _"_ This time the voice from the shadows was the wail of a banished spirit, doomed to wander between the lands of the living and the dead. The shadow that was Loki hunched over, and the knife flashed as he brought his hands up to his head.

"And you want the truth."

"Am I supposed to trust the stories _you_ tell me? Why? What makes them better than the stories everyone else tells?"

"You might recall that this very morning I swore to always speak the truth to you, Loki. My solemn oath."

"Your solemn _oath_ was to take me away from my family and my home—but I guess that doesn't matter since they were never really mine in the first place, were they?"

"They were," said Tyr gently; or as gently as a warmonger knew how. "Just not in the ways you always assumed."

"So _I_ _'m_ the idiot for being so gullible."

"No. No, not at all. You never had cause to question until today, that's all. Why would you? What child _could_ question such a thing? But then your family turned out to have more secrets than most."

"Secrets." There was a broken little laugh, and the shadow began to pace again in the darkness. "Secrets like my father was never my father, and my mother would take the first opportunity to replace me with a _daughter._ Fa—Odin was right. I am no son of theirs. I was no _son_ at all; unnatural and _wrong_ …"

"I know for a fact that is false."

"I'm not even the same _species_ as them!"

"And I cannot even pretend to understand what it must feel like to have such a thing revealed to you. Much less in such a cruel way." He took a step closer, and added thoughtfully, "Odin wanted to hurt you, but it's your choice whether or not he will succeed this night."

Again the knife flickered in the dark, and Tyr's gut clenched. Would he be fast enough to stop the boy if the worst happened?

"If you want answers," he offered, "I can give them to you."

There was a pause that went on for too long, before the shadow finally shifted. "Will you?"

"As many as I have," promised Tyr, and heard the way Loki's breath hitched in response. "Will you give me an answer in return?"

"…Maybe."

"The knife. I had asked why you have it. What did you intend?"

"Maybe I wanted to get rid of Odin's little problem."

Tyr's blood ran cold. "I sincerely hope you are not serious," he said carefully.

Loki sniffed, as his breath hitched again. There was another long pause, and Tyr struggled to keep his breathing even, struggled not to tackle the boy to the ground and disarm him before he could act out. "No," Loki muttered finally. "I don't…" Another quick breath, in and out, the fog of it catching the dim light through the window. "Doing… _that_ … seems too much like letting him win."

Tyr's shoulders dropped in relief, and he let out a long, slow sigh. "I am truly glad to hear you say that, Loki," he said, gently again, and listened to the way the boy's feet shuffled on the stone. "Would you tell me what you did plan, then?"

"You first," came the reply from the shadows, his voice challenging. "Did you know I was not Odin's true son?"

"I knew you were not his get, but I still believed you to be his son until this day," said Tyr.

"There's no difference," protested the boy, but he was _listening_ now, and that was all that Tyr could ask for. He moved into the chamber a little further, feeling his way to the wall behind the altar and leaning against it.

"There is every difference," said Tyr. "You and I share no blood, yet the Norns themselves blessed our fostering ceremony this morning. Do you remember? Even I felt the seidr move, and many people witnessed a flash of light as we exchanged our vows and our blood."

"…I remember," said Loki, in a small voice.

"As far as Yggdrasil is concerned, you are my son. And I intend to care for you as a father should."

"But you knew I wasn't his. Not by blood."

"I knew," Tyr admitted, "because I was there the day you were found."

"And you never thought to say anything?"

Tyr sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I thought you knew. It did not make a difference to me, and I daresay it didn't make a difference to your mother, either."

"She's not…" The boy's voice wobbled, as he struggled to make himself speak the words. "She's not my mother, either. Is she?"

"She _is_ , Loki. She always was. Just not by blood. You have to know she loves you," Tyr coaxed. "Did you think her farewell to you at the palace stables was merely an act? A pretense, a performance for an audience?"

Loki didn't answer, but Tyr could hear the wet sniff, and see the shift in the shadows opposite him.

"Oh, Loki…" Tyr started forward, but the shadow moved away from him, leaving him standing in empty darkness.

"She got rid of me, a-a-and took Sif for a daughter the same day," said Loki, his voice thick with tears.

"She allowed you to escape Odin's grasp," corrected Tyr, "and put Sif under her direct control so the girl could never threaten you again." Something occurred to him then, and he asked, "Did you not journey part of the way home at Thor's side? Did you and Frigga not speak?"

There was another long pause, then he mumbled, "She started to. But I… I wasn't sure what she was going to say and I couldn't stand it just being… something horrible, or a platitude… so I didn't listen. I rode with Thor instead."

Tyr sighed. "Loki, has your mother ever been cruel to you in your entire life?"

"…no," he answered, the reluctance practically dripping from his voice and filling the shrine.

"And did she not gift you with a farewell package before you left the palace?"

"…yes."

"Have you had any opportunity to look at it yet?" asked Tyr. "It's been an eventful day."

"I haven't," said Loki, a little calmer now. "I—I wanted to, but Thor was there and I didn't want him to see."

"Perhaps there will be something there that would reassure you," he suggested, but Loki cut him off with a muttered, "Unless it's another lie."

"Have you a gift for seeing the future?" Tyr asked dryly.

"I… no… What?"

"If you can't see the future, don't try to predict it," he explained. "It's too easy to make a depressing fate come to pass, just by expecting it."

"I suppose."

Tyr let him mull that over for a few moments, then said, "My turn."

"Sir?"

"Why do you have that knife?"

Loki sighed heavily. "It's stupid. And I couldn't get it to work anyway." There was a sliding noise, and the deeper shadows in the darkness drew closer to the floor as Loki sat, near the rear corner.

"Let me decide what is stupid, if you please," Tyr reminded him.

"I… Fa—Odin said I wasn't even Aesir, and I thought—I mean, I _look_ Aesir, so maybe there's some sort of glamour on me. Or a, a false skin. And maybe if I saw my blood I'd be able to tell what I really am." He sighed again. "But I couldn't get the light to work."

"Light?"

"I can't very well look at my blood in the _dark_ ," said the boy irritably, and Tyr couldn't help but chuckle. "I have a spell that makes a light, but you have to be—your mind needs to be at least a little bit settled in order to wield seidr, and I'm, I was too…"

"Distraught?"

"Aye. Distraught. _There_ _'s_ a term."

Tyr chuckled again, feeling the tension in the air fade as the boy settled. Still gloomy, yes, but nowhere near as volatile as he'd been. "Would you mind if I sat beside you?" he asked.

"I suppose not."

"Any chance of getting your light spell to work now?"

"Um." There was a pause, and then a flaring green flame erupted from the boy's hand, settling down to a clean white glow. Though no bigger than a candle flame, after being in the darkness for so long, it was almost painfully bright, and Tyr shielded his eyes for a moment until they adjusted.

"Nicely done," said Tyr, and the boy's eyes flicked up to him in surprise, vivid green in the glow from his hand. "You'll have to get used to me praising that, boy. It's something I'm not capable of and never will be. I admire that."

"Thank you. Sir." Loki took a shaky breath and let it out slowly, then held out the knife in his other hand. "I suppose I should maybe…"

"Shrine like this is a dangerous place to spill blood," said Tyr. He stepped over and slid down the wall, almost shoulder-to-shoulder with the boy; they weren't touching, but he could feel the warmth from Loki's body through the sleeve of his tunic. "As I understand it, the Norns might take such a thing, done here, as an offer—and likely take the offer a bit more seriously than you would be comfortable with. Besides, I did say I would give you answers, and that I was there when you were found."

"I remember," said Loki.

"What would you like to know first?" asked Tyr.

"I—all of it." He shook his head a little helplessly. "I hardly know where to begin. I suppose 'what am I' would be the quickest."

"Fair enough," Tyr nodded. "You're of Jotun ancestry."

He was not at all expecting the choked-off cry of horror that Loki gave to that. "Wh-what?" he gasped. "Jo— _what_? I-I-I thought perhaps I was some sort of, of part-elf or something, for the seidr, but… how can—you're joking! How could you joke of such a thing?"

"Why would it be a jest?" Tyr frowned. "We were on Jotunheim, at the end of the war."

"No!" Loki leaped to his feet and began to pace again. "No. No, I won't have it. I'll not be descended from those, those _beasts._ "

Tyr looked up at him from his spot on the floor and raised an eyebrow. "I'll thank you not to speak of my father's family that way," he said mildly, and Loki spun to stare at him, wide eyes gleaming in the light of his little flame.

"What?"

The general shrugged. "I am Tyr Hymirsson. Hymir, my father, was Jotun. Among the many other endeavors he pursued in his lifetime, he was renowned as a poet among his people." He gave Loki a sardonic look as he added, "Beasts don't generally write poetry."

"I… I don't understand." Loki took a step away and a step back, shaking his head rapidly. "How can… how would Asgard _allow_ you to—"

Hmm. "Loki… what are Jotnar, to your way of thinking?"

"Monsters," he breathed, and several pieces slotted into place for Tyr in that moment. "The stuff of nightmares. Parents tell their children to, to behave, to eat their greens, or the frost giants will come and take them away and devour them. When the weather is especially cold, it is frost giant volur who are trying to break past Asgard's defenses to slaughter us in our sleep."

"I highly doubt it was your mother who told you such nonsense," said Tyr, and Loki halted, then shut his eyes in weary pain.

"Not _her_ ," he said. " _Him._ "

Tyr couldn't help but growl in irritation. He was beginning to believe that he had not hit Odin nearly enough this evening to make up for all that the malicious cur had done to the boy.

"Asgard once said the same sorts of things about the Vanir people," he said by way of explanation. "Back when the Aesir-Vanir War was still fresh in their minds. The Vanir were, oh let me see, cannibals who bred more children than they would need, so that they could eat them as part of certain dark rituals."

Loki couldn't seem to help the snort of disbelief that he made. "That's ridiculous."

"Aye, it is," nodded Tyr. "And now there are idiots who say similar things about the Jotnar, but it's just as much nonsense as the old tales about the Vanir."

"But… your father?" asked Loki, taking a step closer.

Tyr shrugged and tipped his head back to rest against the wall of the shrine. "Jotunheim and Asgard were not always at war. I am half-Jotun. So is the All-Father, for that matter. Your healer, the Lady Eir, is a quarter Jotun—"

"Wait, Fa—Odin is half… he has Jotun blood?"

"Has he never spoken of his mother, the lady Bestla, daughter of Bolthorn?"

Loki shook his head mutely.

Tyr sighed, his breath visible now in the light from Loki's seidr. "Well, she was of the line of Ymir. Royalty, or near to it. Of course, all the people of Jotunheim claim descent from Ymir, he's their First Ancestor, but the royal line say he birthed them, rather than siring them. Shape shifter," he added at Loki's dumbfounded expression.

"I'm too small to be a frost giant," said the boy.

"My father used to tell me a story that claimed that Ymir was great in character and courage, great in stature and might, and great in seidr and wisdom. And he said that since Ymir was the First of them all, only he was perfect enough to be 'great' in all three areas. All other Jotnar only are great in two." He nodded toward Loki's magic light, with a little smile. "I'm not so sure you should be concerned about being 'great in stature', all things considered."

Loki swallowed, looking at the flame in his hand as if he weren't sure how it had gotten there. "Do you… do you know how I was… found?"

Tyr nodded, then jerked his chin, inviting the boy to come and sit back down beside him.

"It was the end of the war," he said, as Loki stepped cautiously closer. "Odin defeated their king, Laufey, in single combat, but was wounded in his own turn, and weary of all the bloodshed besides. We all were, by that point; the whole thing had turned into an exhausting, gory mess _months_ prior, and we all just wanted it to end so we could go home. Laufey's forces just wouldn't—ah, but that's not really relevant." He sighed, banishing the memory with a wave of his hand. "What is relevant is that Odin went into a nearby temple. Perhaps he was seeking solace, or perhaps only looking to retrieve from the Jotnar the Casket of Ancient Winters. According to my father, the Casket was their greatest treasure, not intended to be a weapon, but they'd somehow found a way to use it as one; we needed to take it from them if we wanted the war to end once and for all.

"So. Odin went into the temple. I was not far behind him; there were bodies everywhere, outside, wearing temple robes, killed despite Odin's orders to leave the temple untouched. Slaughter on sacred ground, it's… we don't _do_ that. They might have been fighting to defend the temple rather than being helpless murder victims, but Odin still had me find and execute the guilty parties personally, just to be sure, rather than bring the bad luck back with us to Asgard." Tyr paused to swallow down the memory. "But that was later; by the time we entered the temple ourselves, it was almost entirely empty. If there were any attendants left alive, they had fled rather than face us, and I cannot blame them.

"But by some strange pass, when they fled, they left behind the Casket, unguarded, and an infant, wearing only a scrap of a blanket to protect it from the cold." Tyr looked up to see Loki hanging on his every word. "Odin saw you, and heard you cry, and bent over you, and you stopped crying when you saw him. By the time I arrived, you were already wrapped in his cloak and clutching his finger in your fist. He told me later that you smiled at him, and healed something in his heart that he'd thought forever broken by the war."

Loki swallowed, but said nothing.

"Apart from your size, Odin said you looked like any other Jotun babe," Tyr went on, "but then he touched you, and your skin changed. Perhaps you were just responding to the warmth, as my father told me many Jotnar can do; he was not always blue, either. But to do it so young—a natural shape shifter, able to change from birth—now, that's a rare gift indeed."

"My skin… changed?"

"You turned from the blue of a healthy Jotun to the pale color you wear even now," said Tyr. "I myself have never seen you blue except once, in Odin's tent shortly afterward. It was cold, of course; Odin set you down long enough to light a brazier and warm the place, and for a moment you reverted to your Jotun skin. Then he picked you up again and you shifted once more. We both assumed the warmth was what caused the shift; as I said, that's a typical thing for Jotnar. He fed you on broth until you fell asleep, and he brought you home and named you his son."


	19. Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day ends, and another begins. Tyr talks with Loki and Mimir.

"His son," mused Loki. "Why would he do that? He was… knee-deep in Jotun blood, why take one of them to raise?"

"I asked him that myself, and got contradictory answers," said Tyr. "First he said you were too small, and had been left to die. Certainly there was no one else alive near the temple when we got there. Odin, however, implied that it was deliberate, that you were unwanted, or possibly a sacrifice to bring about a favorable end to the war." The boy shuddered, and Tyr leaned into him a bit, just for a second. "But later, he also said that he thought a Jotun raised by Aesir could help bridge the gap that had formed between our two cultures, that you could help bring about a permanent peace."

Loki frowned, shaking his head in confusion. "An abandoned babe—even if it survives, why would any of the Jotnar listen to it? And an Aesir-raised Jotun, why would any of them trust it or heed its words?"

Tyr shrugged. "I know not. I did ask him about it, one other time when you were a little older. You and Thor were playing together, thick as thieves, and he was watching you both with a smile. I asked about his plans and he said that they no longer mattered."

"Do you think—" Loki stopped, swallowed hard. "Never mind."

"You can ask me anything, Loki," Tyr reminded him.

So the boy shut his eyes and said, "Do you think he ever loved me? I heard you tell him he didn't, but… do you think he might have?"

Tyr sighed deeply. "I think he tried to," he said after a moment's thought. "Odin… He's the sort of person who needs to be at the center of his own universe, which is perfectly normal, really; but he also needs to be at the center of everyone else's universe who surrounds him. Love means putting someone else at the center of your world, even if only for a few moments at a time. And being a parent means teaching your child how to be comfortable at the center of theirs. Odin loved you for a while, I think, because you were small and you worshiped him… but when you got older…"

"I uh, I heard that too," said Loki. "I started to think for myself and ask questions. The way you put it, I guess I started looking for my center, and it wasn't _him_."

"And he couldn't forgive you for that," said Tyr with a nod. "Foolish. As foolish as being angry at a creature for breathing. It can't do anything else if it's to live, after all."

"I suppose."

"You know that you are not to blame for this, don't you?" Tyr leaned forward to get a better look at the boy's face. "Odin mistreated you, but you never did anything to earn it. It was never your fault."

"I suppose," he said again. "It is hard to believe, though. My father—the man I grew up believing was my father—has spent years telling me I brought all this on myself, that if I didn't misbehave he would not have to punish me the way he did. And you… I don't mean any disrespect, sir, but I've barely conversed with you before today. I, I want to believe what you say, but—"

"Give it time. Trust is a precious thing, but it is not grown overnight. Or over one day," he added, smiling to see Loki's own amusement at the jest, however small it was. "In the meantime," he went on, pulling out his pouch and opening it, rummaging through the things Astrid had put there, "in the meantime, have you eaten at all since our lunch?"

"Healer Runa made sure I did, yes," said Loki. "But I confess I still had not much appetite."

"An empty stomach can lead a man to foolishness, sometimes." He pulled out a round loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese wrapped in cloth. "Make us more prone to anger, or rash decisions." He looked significantly at the knife Loki still held, satisfied when the boy ducked his head and put it away sheepishly, and passed the food over. Loki began pulling the bread apart into pieces while Tyr brought forth a bottle of cider. "Ah. Astrid or Olief must like you already."

"Who are they?"

"Astrid is one of the head servants at Vingólf; she and Hoenir are in charge of virtually everything that happens at the old dirt pile. Oleif is head of the kitchens. Neither one of them is an easy one to charm, with pretty words or a pretty face." Indeed, more than one guest over the years had thought their status or wealth could let them get away with mistreating the servants at Vingólf, and found themselves thrown out on their ears courtesy of Astrid and a few strapping stable hands. She had no qualms whatsoever about putting an impertinent adolescent in his place if need be, and Oleif tolerated no disrespect in his kitchen whatsoever.

"Ah." Loki reached out to pass a hunk of bread to Tyr, then paused with his hand midair. "Is it proper to eat here, inside the shrine?"

"Hm. I suppose it would be safest if we left. If you are prepared to return home, that is." At Loki's nod, Tyr hoisted himself to his feet, and reached out a hand to pull the boy up. "It's traditional here to leave a gift for the Norns; perhaps some of the bread and cheese, or do you have a better idea?"

Loki sighed. "After this, they might be satisfied with the full bottle of that cider." He glanced at it longingly.

"Or your knife, perhaps?"

Loki grimaced. "Aye, that probably would serve better. It's meant to be a sacrifice, something you value."

"Mm. Never mind that, then. You've given up enough today, I think the Norns will forgive you keeping that."

"They're not known for forgiving anybody," said Loki gloomily, and he pulled his blade and left it on the altar.

The trouble was, the boy was right. Norns could be cold bitches, or at least their volur could on their behalf. It was probably best to give them something of greater value than just a half-loaf of bread. "This is damn good cider," Tyr said, setting the bottle beside Loki's blade. "They'd better appreciate it."

"Do you have more at Vin—at home?"

"I do," said Tyr. "But I am thirsty _now_."

It was worth it, to hear the faint laugh from Loki as Tyr ushered him outside.

* * *

 

There were two horses grazing in the clearing outside the shrine, tethered to a nearby sapling; the light still in Loki's hand showed his frown. "Did someone else come with you?"

"No," said Tyr; "I asked the grooms to come and leave mounts for us, and then depart. If you'd prefer, we can still walk, but with the fog and the chill I thought you'd prefer a faster pace."

Loki blew out a breath, watching it turn to fog in the night. "I hadn't noticed it before, but you're right. Oh—thank you, sir," he added, as Tyr passed him his cloak from the bundle Astrid had prepared.

The horses, displeased at having been woken and saddled in the dark, were only too happy to turn their noses back toward home, and hastened up the hillside with little urging from their riders. At Tyr's suggestion, Loki extinguished his light, and they made the journey in peaceful silence; Tyr caught the boy yawning once or twice in the quiet dark.

They neared the old dirt pile quickly enough, and soon, "There they are!" came the cry from ahead of them along the ancient earthworks. Torches were lit in the archway, and the courtyard beyond was ablaze with light. Hoenir, Astrid, and even Healer Runa were there, along with several others waiting to take their horses.

They gathered around as Tyr and the boy dismounted. "Are you well, young master?" asked Hoenir, crowding close as soon as the horses were out of the way. "You worried us all."

"I…" Loki didn't seem to know how to respond to that. "I'm sorry?"

"No no, don't apologize, young master, so long as no harm was done—"

"But please don't do that again," said Runa. "Waking a healer in the middle of the night almost never means good news. If you're not bleeding to death, I'd much rather sleep till morning, if it's all the same to you, my prince."

"I'm sorry," Loki said again, this time with a little wince. "I-I didn't think—"

"You were distraught," said Hoenir and Runa at the same time, before they both glanced at one another and chuckled. Hoenir went on, "We are simply relieved that you are home now."

"Perhaps the next time you are distraught, you might consider another option than running away and panicking the household," said Runa, resting a hand on the boy's shoulder, and speaking gently enough that he did not cringe.

"I… I will. Healer. I _am_ sorry. It was—it was foolish of me."

"It made perfect sense at the time," said Tyr, talking over the others before they could embarrass the boy further, "and no harm was done. Let us all return to our beds and worry no more. Except you," he added, patting Loki's back. "You and I still require a trip to the kitchens before we may seek our rest."

Loki hunched his shoulders and pulled his cloak a little tighter. "Yes, sir."

* * *

It did not take long, after Tyr's thanks and Loki's embarrassed apologies, for the two of them to make their way to the kitchens. The lamps on the walls began to glow cheerfully as Tyr entered, illuminating work tables and hanging pots, a haunch of smoked pork on its cutting board, and baskets of fruits and vegetables beneath bundles of drying herbs. It was all very homey, and Tyr's second favorite place in the palace apart from his own chambers.

He waved Loki to a seat and set out the bread and cheese from his pouch, then pulled a couple of apples out and sliced a bit of meat from the haunch on the table. A moment's search found another bottle of Oleif's good cider and a pair of mugs.

"It's not a royal feast, but it'll do," he said with satisfaction, sitting down beside Loki and pouring the cider. "Hm. I hope your stomach is up to it by now."

"It is, thank you, sir," said the boy, though he still mostly nibbled at the fare in front of him. "May I ask you something else?"

"Of course."

"…Who else knows? About—about my ancestry?" Loki tore a bit of bread into a pile of crumbs. "It seems as though everyone knew except me."

"Ah. No, I doubt that is the case," said Tyr. "I did, obviously, because I was there. Odin and Frigga, of course. Beyond that, I can only speculate. I would say it's likely that Lady Eir as your healer would have needed to know, for the sake of your health, and Healer Runa might know something as well, or have noticed something in her examinations. Perhaps one or two palace servants needed to be informed, while you were yet a babe?" He shrugged, and reached for the cheese. "I cannot guess at anyone else. I do know that Odin swore _me_ to secrecy, though I cannot imagine why he thought it necessary to conceal your heritage—especially from you."

Loki nodded, taking that in. "What of Thor?"

"Hmm." Tyr rubbed his knuckles under his beard, thinking. "He's not one for secrets, is he… and you were not told either. I'd say it's a safe bet that he still is not aware."

"He'll hate me once he finds out," said Loki quietly. He would not look up from his food. "When we were children he once swore to hunt the monsters down and slay them all."

"I would not take too seriously the vows of a child, especially one who does not know any better," said Tyr. "Your brother loves you—"

"He's not even really my brother."

"He is, just as much as your mother is your mother."

Loki shook his head. "I still am not confident that she will keep me, now that she has Sif."

"Hmm, a thoughtful, intelligent boy, or a shrewish, spiteful girl who is arrogant besides," mused Tyr. "I don't know which one I would pick, to be sure."

Loki mock-glared at him, and Tyr smirked. But then the boy's face fell. " _She_ picked the girl," he said.

Tyr's amusement faded. "It is more complicated than that."

"Is it?" Loki fidgeted with his apple, turning it over and over in his hands. "I suppose it must be. Odin allows you to take me, and then comes to your home that same night. You shout at each other, things that ought to see you beheaded, and he allows that. You _struck_ him and he didn't kill you on the spot. And the things you said…" His hands stopped their fidgeting and clutched the apple tightly. "I hardly know where to begin on _those._ "

"Mm." The general took a long pull from his mug of cider, ordering his thoughts. "The All-Father and I developed a bond of trust, during the war with Jotunheim. We are still king and general to one another, but at times we will allow ourselves to… set aside certain formalities, and permit ourselves to speak to one another as only men. Odin has valued my counsel in the past, even when he has disagreed with it. We have nearly come to blows more than once, though it is rare—the last time was something to do with supplies for my men, as I recall."

"So it's… you're really all right, then, he isn't going to have you executed? Some of the things you said—sir, you threatened to _depose_ him. I just… I simply cannot imagine that he would let something like that go."

Tyr acknowledged that with a tilt of his head, even as he reached for his mug of cider. "Once his pride cools, and he is able to see sense again, he will take the words as the warning that they were meant to be, and not as the threat he seems to prefer to believe in."

Loki nodded, taking that in, finally eating his apple instead of playing with it nervously. They ate in companionable silence, Tyr devouring his meal quickly as was his habit, the boy lingering over his with fatigue.

Tyr took a moment to study the boy's posture and the circles under his eyes. "I am sure you still have questions," he said finally. "I think you deserve to know as much as I can tell you. But I also think it is quite late, and we both need sleep. You are excused from schooling and other duties tomorrow while you settle in here; we can take the time to speak then, if that is acceptable to you."

From the look on his face, Loki wanted to protest, but with food in his belly he was yawning before he could get any words out.

"Come," said Tyr, amused, "our chambers are in the same wing. To bed with us both."

* * *

Like the soldier he was, Tyr was awake at sunrise the next morning, no matter how late he'd gone to bed the night before. The first thing he did was check with the night-shift servants to see if Loki had required anything the night before.

"I heard him cry out in his sleep, a few hours before dawn, my lord," said one. "But he dismissed me when I asked if he required anything."

Tyr nodded. Nightmares, most likely. Common with the boys he'd fostered, their first few weeks, and that didn't even include the torture Loki had endured.

The second thing Tyr did was find Mimir.

After the usual pleasantries, Tyr folded his arms. "As I was preparing to sleep, Hoenir informed me that you had seen Odin off to Gladsheim," he said.

"I did," said Mimir, inscrutable.

"May I ask what you discussed after I left?"

"You may not."

Tyr raised an eyebrow.

"Family matters," Mimir relented. "My nephew has grown less wise, it would seem. Become someone that perhaps Asgard ought not trust. I told him this. He did not appreciate it."

Tyr sighed, and shook his head. "Have you any ideas what to do about it? I… have a duty to Asgard. As does the Thing, if Odin is truly no longer worthy of his post."

Mimir studied him thoughtfully. "I overheard your shouting last night," he said after a moment. "You truly do not desire the throne?"

"I have neither the head nor the heart for most courtly scheming," Tyr replied. "Moreover, as a general, if anyone under me is stupid or insubordinate, I can simply pound them into the dirt until they learn better. If I were king, on the other hand, I would have to possess more diplomacy and patience than I know myself to be capable of."

Mimir chuckled at that, the crags of his face revealing deep laugh lines. "Fair enough."

"What about you?" Tyr asked. "As his family member, the Thing might look to you to replace him."

"Bah. After that foolish business with Jotunheim a few centuries back, no one of Asgard would have a Jotun on the throne. And that's assuming I didn't have better things to do with my time."

"'Deeper mysteries' or some such, seidmadr?"

Mimir smirked at him a little. "Indeed. And, of course, teaching your son. But Odin remains my sister-son, even after all this time. He is my responsibility, whether he likes it or not, and I do have an idea for what I might do to guide him. I only fear that he will not permit me to persuade him, and I may have to intervene against his will."

Tyr nodded, and let the topic go. If the seidmadr wanted to tell him his plans, he would. If Tyr felt that he needed to push for more information later, as lord of Vingólf, he would.

"What of Loki?" he asked instead.

"I have yet to assess the boy beyond what you saw at the Thing," said Mimir, "but his gift is a strong one. Dangerous of Odin, to leave it half-trained for so long."

"How dangerous?"

The old sorcerer tipped his head a little, considering. "That depends on the boy, to an extent. If he is a cautious sort, he could get by for a while without proper instruction. If he's more curious than cautious, it may well be a miracle he hasn't destroyed himself by now."

Tyr blinked in surprise. "Destroyed?"

"Attempted to harness powers he does not have the strength yet to command, in a nutshell," said Mimir. "I've seen it before. The results…" He shook his head gravely, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his robe. "They're never good. An untrained student of seidr can, at best, cripple or obliterate their own ability to touch the energies forevermore. At worst, they die, _not_ cleanly or quickly, and the destruction they wreak is sufficient that they could take hundreds of lives with them."

Tyr's mouth went a little dry at the concept. He had to clear his throat before prompting, "And Loki's gift is strong enough…"

"Nearly any untrained student can cause harm to themselves or others, without intending to do so. That Loki has an especially strong gift only means that the harm would encompass a greater area."

Tyr shook his head, bemused. "I am all the gladder, then, that you have agreed to take him as your student. I have not yet had time to look over the reports from his other tutors, but from what I have seen on the training field, he takes his learning seriously and applies himself, even if he does not enjoy the lesson."

"That is good to know," said Mimir. "For all that seidr flows in his veins, he may not enjoy much of what I must cover with him here in the beginning, while I assess his abilities. I suspect there will be glaring gaps in his education, based on the spotty teaching he claims to have received so far."

"I leave that in your hands, seidmadr, but I trust you not to abuse your position over him. He's had enough of that, lately."

Mimir narrowed his eyes at him, and replied, "Your concern is appreciated, but I believe you said it best last night: 'I am not Odin.' The boy will receive fair instruction from me, and will learn only as slowly or quickly as he and his skill dictate. So long as I do not believe he is deliberately wasting my time, I will teach him, and more than that—as a teacher of seidr, I will be his mentor. The relationship between us will be considerably closer than that he will have with any other instructor."

"I am pleased to hear it," said Tyr. "You cannot blame me for being cautious."

Mimir sighed, and looked out the nearby window. "No, I cannot. Alas for the reasons behind that caution, however."

"Indeed."

* * *

Tyr found Loki in his chambers, rearranging and putting away the things he hadn't gotten to yesterday. He looked up, and offered a half-smile when Tyr tapped on the door frame.

"May I enter?"

"Yes, of course, sir. Please."

"Sleep well? Or well enough, I should say, for your first night in a new place?"

"Well enough, sir, yes."

The boy was almost painfully earnest, but at least seemed to be in better spirits than he'd been the night before. Tyr searched for something to discuss hat might put his foster son at ease. "Have you enough shelf space in these chambers for your books?"

"I think I will, sir, yes." He fidgeted for a second. "I thought of something last night, after we parted," he said. "May I ask you about it?"

"Of course, Loki," said Tyr. "Always."

The boy blinked, and ducked his head a little, before taking a breath and plunging in. "It's just… you said that Fa—that Odin's mother was… of Jotunheim," he said. "And I remembered Mimir calling him his sister-son. Does that—is he…?"

"Jotun? Yes. It came up in conversation this morning, actually," said Tyr.

"Oh," said Loki. "I… oh."

"Is anything wrong?"

"No, I merely… if the jotnar were truly monstrous, I cannot imagine them ever spawning someone like Mimir the Wise. The awareness plays with my assumptions and prejudices." He smiled, a tentative, hopeful thing that warmed Tyr to see.

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"Oh, my apologies. It's one of the fundamentals of seidr theory: to question everything. And to know oneself. Assumptions, especially beliefs that you didn't realize you took for granted, can become obstacles that prevent a user of seidr from reaching their full potential."

"I follow you so far."

Loki smiled a little wider. "Last night, as I lay awake, I thought to myself that Mimir couldn't possibly be Jotun—and then I realized, I was making assumptions about, about an entire population of people whom I have never met. An assumption I didn't even realize I was making, do you see?"

The boy's enthusiasm made Tyr smile in his turn. "I do."

"Well, I realized that, and then I… oh." His face fell suddenly. "This must be boring to listen to," he said.

"I do not find it so," said Tyr. "Anything which inspires this degree of enthusiasm in you is something that will rouse my own curiosity, even if I only understand a tenth of it."

Loki actually blushed, and looked away. "I still find it hard to believe I will have a real seidr tutor," he said shyly. "The fact that he is Jotun—he could be a mortal for all I care. Sir, I… I don't know if you realize—"

"Any fool could see how much it meant to you, Loki," said Tyr. "It was my honor to be able to provide you something you lacked."

"Thank you sir. Truly."

"You are most welcome. I think I do not have to worry about you failing to appreciate the full value of the instruction you will receive, do I?"

Loki laughed a little at that. "You do not!"

"I am happy to hear it." Tyr stepped a little further into the room, looking at the half-filled shelves and the bundles still waiting at the foot of the bed. "Happy I am, also, to see you in such better spirits this morning. May I ask what inspired you, or was it only a decent night's rest?"

Loki did not answer at first, but he stepped across to the desk and picked up a packet of papers. "You had mentioned my mother's parting gift," he said, not taking his eyes off the packet. "Before I went to sleep, I worked up the courage to open it." He turned then, and the smile that lit up his face was so full of relief and love that Tyr could nearly feel it in his own heart. "Everything is all right. Or… everything is _going_ to be all right. My mother, the things she said—I understand so much now that I didn't before. Perhaps it is naive of me, but, well… the truth is that I am reassured entirely."


	20. Frigga's Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many readers have asked for this chapter. I feel pleased to finally be able to give it to you.

To Tyr's great surprise, Loki handed the packet to him, and said, "There were things in here that she said she wanted you to see." As Tyr took the papers, Loki went on, "Seidmadr Mimir wanted to speak to me after I had eaten, and I do not wish to keep him waiting. May I be excused, sir?"

Hm. "Yes, of course. Take as much time as you require with him, but when you've finished, come and find me again. We'll need to have you evaluated by the tutors here in Vingólf before you can resume your lessons. Bah, don't make such faces. Every foster I've taken has gone through the same thing, and in fact every child and adolescent whose family moves to the city here undergoes the same assessment. It's just to see where you are in your studies so that we can assign tutors who match your skill level."

"Yes, sir."

"Off with you, then."

* * *

_My darling Loki,_ Tyr read. He folded the papers and tucked them into his shirt pocket, uncomfortable at the breach of privacy.

Tyr left Loki's chambers and went to his own, closing and locking the door, and sat at his desk.

* * *

_My darling Loki,_

_I cannot express to you the depths of my relief at seeing you safely out of the palace and away from Odin's tyranny. I have much to tell you, my beautiful son, but even before I begin, let me assure you that my love goes with you always. No one and nothing will ever replace you in my heart. I have loved you from the moment I first saw your face, and I will love you even beyond my dying breath. This I swear to you._

_As you know, my dear, one area of seidr practice for which I have an affinity is scrying magic; what you may not know is just how often I have used it to keep watch over you, your brother, and the good of the realm. Over the centuries, I have seen much, concerning your fate and your brother's, and while much of it has brought me joy, there were other visions which put fear and dread in my heart._

_When you were first accused of shaming Sif with the cutting of her hair, I went to my chambers and scried for possible outcomes. I saw for you terrible danger, betrayal, humiliation, and pain, and I wept; yet when I scried again, hoping to see more, I saw that your pain would be followed by lasting salvation. I knew not how to interpret such omens, or what I should do to protect you. I feared that if I intervened to prevent your suffering, I might also prevent the salvation which was to follow. Oh, Loki, that I stood by and did nothing while you were hurt is a regret I shall bear to my dying day. That you are with General Tyr now eases the pain in my soul, but it does not erase the fact that I, your mother, ought to have done more to protect you, and did not, out of hope that someone else would._

_I am ashamed, my darling, for you deserve so much better than what I have provided you over these past years, when Odin scorned you without cause and you sought for an anchor and reassurance in the world. There are those who claim that, because I can sometimes look into the future, I must also have the power, like the Norns, to shape that future and bring about whatever fate I wish for those whom I love, or those whom I despise. Unfortunately, neither of those things is true. If they were, there is so much I would have prevented for you, my son, if I could have._

_And yet, I am hopeful, for now that you are part of the general's household, I believe that I will be able to do more for you than ever before. I believe that he will become for you the anchor that you need, and deserve, as I have failed to be, too many times._

_(General Tyr, if my son should trust you enough to show you these words, know that his trust—and he, himself—is a rare gift. He does not bestow it easily, but his loyalty, once given, is absolute. I trust you will cherish that loyalty as the priceless thing that it is, and cherish my son as if you had sired him yourself.)_

_You are very astute, my son, and I can almost hear you asking why I might claim to be freer to aid you now, when Odin is no longer seen as your father, when you are no longer living in my own home, than I could be when you did dwell here. The answer to that, I fear, is complicated. More complicated than you deserve, and by that I mean only that you, a child, were caught up in the push and pull of politics that ought never to have concerned you. You were involved, with no choice and through no fault of your own, in matters of state that placed you in the middle of an ongoing, silent battle between Asgard and Vanaheim._

_You know, of course, that I am Vanir. What you may not know—what your tutors may have been forbidden to teach you—is just how I came from Vanaheim to marry the king of Asgard._

_Bor, Odin's father, was already an angry and bitter man by the time he inherited the throne from Buri. The reasons for that are convoluted, involving both his father and his wife, Odin's mother; but suffice to say that they culminated for Bor in a distrust of Woman. Not simply a specific woman whom he perceived had wronged him, but all women; in his mind, they were treacherous and not to be trusted—nor given freedom overmuch._

_It was perhaps inevitable, then, that the relationship between Asgard and Vanaheim—Vanaheim the matriarchy, Vanaheim the birthplace of the shield maidens—would begin to sour, in the face of repeated insults from Bor during diplomatic summits, refusals of fair trade without just cause, and so forth. Bor would not deal with any female leaders of Vanaheim, undermining their authority to speak only to their male underlings, pretending at times as if the queens were not even present in the chambers of diplomacy; regal and accomplished leaders with centuries of wisdom and experience were treated as mere servants or worse, simply for being female and not male. He insulted and humiliated the leaders of my people, again and again, before the leaders of the other realms, without any just cause._

_Naturally, Vanaheim would not stand for such insult for long, and eventually there was war._

_Along with his distrust of Vanaheim's leadership, Bor also wished to prove himself as great a heroic leader as his father before him, who brought his people out of Jotunheim and eventually conquered the lands that would become Asgard. So Bor would not content himself with skirmishes, nor would he bend or admit that his insults, his own foolish prejudice, were what had caused the war. He would not be satisfied with defeating Vanaheim's attacks; instead he sought to obliterate Vanaheim's leadership, humiliate the realm before all Yggdrasil, and establish his supremacy once and for all._

_Bor was relentless, and ruthless. He committed atrocities against my people, and eventually we had no choice but to sue for peace. In the treaties, it was Bor who demanded that the shield maidens be abolished, and as a further act to shame and degrade us, he ordered the exchange of hostages—one of whom must be a shield maiden herself, who would be given in marriage to his son, Odin, who had just reached his majority._

_I was that shield maiden. With the threat of slaughter hanging over my people's heads, I could do little else but break my vows and submit, and hope that the indignity was sufficient to appease Odin's father._

_Odin himself was not a cruel husband; our marriage was not warm but neither was it cold, and over time we grew to have some affection for one another. Eventually I bore him a son, further breaking my shield maiden's vows but securing the peace between our two realms at long last. Bor died believing himself to have won, to have triumphed over Vanaheim and, in his mind perhaps, over Woman, at long last._

_I disagree._

_Rather than break my vows further, I rendered myself infertile after Thor's birth. I have told no other soul of this, Loki. You, the son of my heart if not my womb, are the only person in Asgard to know my secret. Should you trust these words to your foster-father, then he will be the only other adult to know what I have done. Not even Odin is aware, and it is my hope that he shall never learn. Bor is dead, and Odin himself is a wiser king than his father. He respects me, as best he knows how given his upbringing, and feels no need for war with Vanaheim or any other realm simply to appease his pride. The threat to my home world is ended, and I need not break my vows any further than I already have. I shall never again bear a child for Asgard._

_And yet, having borne Thor, I discovered that I truly enjoyed motherhood. The infant prince was innocent and did not deserve to be made a pawn in political schemes, and so I saw to it that he was not. I raised him, and loved him, and found a measure of contentment in doing so._

_Time passed; war came once again, this time against Jotunheim, and for far better reasons than those Bor had invented. Asgard saved the people of Midgard, and drove the Jotnar back to their world. They were defeated, and Odin returned, with one eye lost and two treasures gained._

_Loki, son of my heart, this is my second secret: you were one of those treasures. You were a few days old, certainly not more than a few weeks, and you had been placed in a Jotun temple for safekeeping, but your caretakers were murdered; Odin, feeling remorse for the unsanctioned actions of his men, assumed the responsibility for your care._

_Do not mistake my meaning, dear one: just as Thor was an innocent babe, so were you—I would not abide the thought that you should be used for some political purpose. Odin, though you may not believe it, felt the same. He spoke for a time of finding a way to bridge the ever-widening gap between the Aesir and the Jotnar, their ancient ancestors, but never with much conviction. He may not have held much regard for the Jotnar, but I truly believe that his heart was in the right place when he rescued you and brought you home._

_No, my son, when I call you a treasure, I mean only this: When I bore Thor, I cared for and loved him well enough. I believed I loved him as all mothers love their children, and perhaps I did. Yet, when Odin placed you in my arms, I felt as though my heart would break for sheer joy. I was astonished, not that I should love a Jotun babe, but by how very deeply I could love a child that had not come from my own womb. You were mine, fiercely mine, the moment I laid eyes upon you._

_Perhaps my soul recognized yours, as a fellow exile in Asgard. Perhaps my seidr responded to your own, for it was present and strong even then, even as tiny as you were. I know not. I only know that you remain mine still, and I love you just as fiercely today as I did then. Know this, Loki: I always will._

_Against my advice, when you grew older, Odin commanded that you were not to be told of your ancestry. I cannot claim to fathom his reasoning; perhaps he believed that you were shape-shifted permanently into Aesir and that therefore you were not truly Jotun any longer. I suppose he may have feared that you would face the prejudices of some of the recent veterans of the war and sought to protect you, or he may have had some other, deeper motive. I only know that he cared for both his sons equally, while you were small, and only came to favor you less as you grew older._

_Again, I cannot claim to know his reasoning. Perhaps he saw that your intelligence was greater than your brother's, or that your wisdom grew more quickly. Perhaps he decided that Thor must inherit the throne and you must not be seen as viable competition for the post. Perhaps you, as a Jotun, reminded him too much of old family pain, pain he inherited from Bor and Buri before him._

_Perhaps you simply no longer worshiped him to the degree he thought you should._

_I could not fathom his motives then, nor can I now. I only know that he began to treat you, first with indifference, and later with scorn, even outright contempt. You had done nothing to deserve it. Let me say that again, because I beg you to hear these words if you hear no others:_ you have done nothing to deserve the way Odin treated you. _You are my brilliant, brave, strong son, and I will not see your spirit crushed by Odin's petty cruelty._

_The cruelty itself, and its source, remain a mystery to me. He was never so cold before, never so heartless. Never so unwise. It is a mystery, and though I have scried, I have been unable to determine its cause._

_As Odin's cruelty toward you grew, I tried to intervene on your behalf, more times than I can say, but Odin rebuffed my advances; then, after several such attempts, he grew angry, and threatened you with even greater harm if I did not desist. My place was at his side, and not yours, he would claim. He even dared—though only once, and he apologized after—dared to remind me that I was no more than a hostage-bride, sold by my people in exchange for an end to war, and not entitled to speak on your behalf._

_Did I not say that you were dragged into the middle of a battle between Asgard and Vanaheim? Here, after all these centuries, for your sake and to keep me in line as his complacent, obedient wife, Odin dared to try to resurrect that ancient war. Yet forgive my inaccuracy; it would be more correct to say that you were caught, not between the politics of two realms, but—and this is perhaps the greater conflict—between Odin's wisdom and care, and the too-loud voices of the ghosts of his forefathers._

_Whatever the cause, Odin had finally crossed a line I was not prepared to tolerate. I have never detested your father in all our centuries together, but in that moment I confess there was neither affection nor regard in my heart for him. Since the day he threatened you thus, they have yet to return._

_In desperation, I took the only course left to me, and scried for your future. I saw suffering, followed by unexpected aid. For myself, I saw helplessness, followed by both loss and freedom. I knew not what to do except to endure, and hope, and pray to the Norns that our deliverance would come soon._

_This morning, when those despicable smiths harmed you and Odin permitted it, when I heard the whispers of the court whom Odin had encouraged to turn against their own prince, I knew what it was to hate._

_But then General Tyr stepped forward and claimed you for his foster-son, and my heart leapt once more in my breast, for your sake, in joy and relief. The general is a man of impeccable character, spoken of by many as the most honorable man in all Asgard. He is respected in every quarter, by noble and commoner alike, warrior and artisan, the young and the wise. He does possess, as all Aesir do (and as you and I do not, I think), a need for occasional violence, almost a thirst for bloodshed, yet I have never known him to look for battle without just cause. In this, he is wiser than at least one of Asgard's past kings._

_General Tyr is tolerant, understanding, yet firm in discipline; he is honest, forthright, yet knows the value of discretion. A better father to you I cannot imagine, my darling boy. I know this without doubt. You see, this morning, after the fostering ceremony, after I felt the hand of the Norns themselves bless your induction into the general's family, I scried once again, to see your future, and mine, and more._

_Never in all my life have I seen a future more auspicious, my brave, beautiful boy. You are destined for great things—not a life free of hardship, for such a thing does not exist, but one of strength, trust, joy, and the fullest expression of your many gifts._

_I see a teacher coming to you soon, who will be a mentor to you as Tyr will be your father. You will grow into the finest of men, supported by these two men in turn, so long as you are willing to try to trust them, and see how they earn your loyalty. I see the love of a loyal woman, steadfast and kind. You may have already met her, though I do not see where or how, and indeed it would not be proper to force love by revealing such things. I see wonders and adventures for you, my son, as well as allies in far-flung realms, and the audacity to accomplish the impossible. You may not be possessed of Thor's boisterous charisma, but your charm and intellect will allow you to find or win friends everywhere you travel. And travel you will, my son: in my scrying I was given a vision of you, smiling, and walking the sky itself as if the clouds were mere stepping stones. I rather like the name of Sky Walker, for you, and I look forward to the day when you have earned it and I may use it in earnest._

_I did see one other thing, strange to me, yet not unwelcome. As I told you above, for myself I saw suffering, followed by both loss and freedom. After the events of this morning, I saw myself in armor, wielding a sword, as I have not done in millennia. I saw the return of the shield maidens, Loki, a feat I would have thought impossible, and I saw the credit for it laid at our feet—yours and mine equally. How you will accomplish such a thing, I know not, but I see that it will be sooner than anyone expects. If Odin should somehow rescind the ban on shield maidens, either in Vanaheim or here in Asgard, then it will not be long until my people are truly free once again, no longer vassals to Asgard's might._

_Lastly, I saw an enemy turned ally; the portents were complex, but I believe that it means that I shall encounter one of your enemies, someone who currently despises you, and turn him or her into an ally through my own efforts. I tentatively believe this may have something to do, again, with the return of the shield maidens. Whoever this person is, know that I will not easily forgive them for whatever harm it is that they have done to you or plotted against you. Whoever this ally may become, I will not ever place them as high in my regard as I hold you._ No one _will ever be placed so highly in my regard as you. Even if by some miracle I were to be granted the privilege of training shield daughters again, as close and sacred as that bond may be, it will still not surpass the love I hold in my heart for you._

_Oh, my dear, precious son. Odin can no longer hold you over my head to ensure my obedient, docile behavior. Odin can no longer touch you without bringing down General Tyr's wrath, and mine, upon his head. The suffering I had foreseen has ended. Your salvation has come to pass. My freedom is upon me. Every future, every scry I cast, from this morning onward shows nothing but auspicious, joyful omens._

_I remain queen, but I also remain your mother. Expect me to visit, as soon and as often as I am able. The All-Father will not be able to come between us ever again, my son—not without a royal decree, and if he were to be so deeply foolish as to issue such an edict, I would make certain that all Asgard knew it, and knew why._

_In the meantime, when I am unable to come, please be comforted with these small things I have included with this letter. The blanket, while doubtless too small for your bed now, was one you and I would curl up in together on cold days when you were small. It is embroidered with scenes from your favorite tales from that time, and a whispered word will bring some of them to life. (I leave you to guess at what word that might be!) There is also a trio of books; one is from your childhood, and a second is one which I hope will see you into manhood; both are treatises on magic which I believe you will enjoy. The third is blank, for you to fill with your own thoughts and discoveries. Though I should be honored if you were to share such things with me, I would also understand and respect your desire to keep such thoughts to yourself, for you have always been a boy who valued his privacy._

_The blessings of the Norns go with you now, my son, as you embark on this new life in General Tyr's household. That it not merely my wish for you, nor merely my prayer; from all I have foreseen, it is a statement of fact._

_I remain,_

_Ever your mother, fiercely and with devotion,_

_Frigga Fjörgynsdottir._

* * *

Tyr read through the letter twice, then set the papers down and rubbed tiredly at his forehead. That the queen trusted him so implicitly with her son's care was gratifying; that she reassured the boy by speaking so highly of Tyr was equally flattering.

That she trusted him to see these words, and know the secrets contained therein, was earth-shattering.

If Frigga's words were to be believed, then only she, Loki, and Tyr knew that the queen was barren—had rendered herself barren, rather than continue to violate her oaths as a shield maiden of Vanaheim. Ordinarily such news would be devastating for a realm, as it meant the prospect that there would be no other heir to inherit the throne from Odin. Fortunately for Asgard, the Thing could choose a successor if need be, but even so—if word of the queen's infertility were to spread, the scandal would still rock the kingdom.

Odin might very well find himself deposed, not just for his actions against his son, but because he could not produce another without taking another woman to wife; moreover, if Frigga were no longer queen, Vanaheim might very well rise up and demand their freedom.

Tyr shook his head, folding the papers carefully and tucking them back inside his jerkin. He had begun yesterday as a general, become a father again before lunch, and by morning of the next day had become a co-conspirator with the queen, trusted to keep a secret of enormous magnitude.

He sighed, and made his way back to Loki's chambers. At least the Norns were on their side.


	21. Tidings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News from the palace; Mimir explains what has happened while Loki frets. Later Mimir discusses Loki's abilities with Tyr, then Tyr and Loki go to the capital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I've left a teeny tiny little Easter egg in this chapter. Virtual chocolate to whoever can spot it.  
> 2\. In comments on previous chapters, I have hinted that I had something in mind for Odin but that I wasn't sure how people would take it. Here is the something. Hopefully you won't hate it.  
> 3\. And some random world-building bits, because why not.

It was evening when a messenger, flying one of the royal palace's priority skiffs, delivered news from the capital that the All-Father had collapsed.

"What?"

"Please, my lord General, read the missive, then I shall endeavor to answer any questions you may have. But I doubt I will know more than what is included there."

There was very little to the message itself; all it had to say was that at sunset the All-Father had suddenly complained of extreme weariness and fatigue, and as he was being brought to the healing wing for examination, he collapsed into a deep sleep from which no one could rouse him. The healers were at a loss to explain it, and were requesting the services of any sorcerers who might be willing to examine the king and discover whether some non-medical malady might have been inflicted upon him.

"Hoenir," Tyr said, "if you would be so kind as to locate Seidmadr Mimir and have him come to my study."

"No need, General." Tyr looked up to see the man himself standing in the doorway. "I see the official notice beat me back from the capital." Mimir stepped inside, pulling off his cloak as he moved, and sat in one of the chairs near the fireplace.

"Have you newer tidings to share with us?"

"I do." Mimir almost waved to dismiss the messenger, then caught himself and glanced at Tyr with a wry smile. "My apologies."

"None needed, if your information is more current than this."

"It is." He settled into his seat with a sigh. "I have had something of a long day," said Mimir. "I don't suppose you would have anything to drink that you would be willing to share?"

"I would prefer first to know whether or not the kingdom is in danger, before I reach for the liquor, Seidmadr," said Tyr mildly.

"Of course. The answer to that—"

A soft knock at the door interrupted them. Tyr looked up to see Loki standing there, looking tentative. "Good evening, sir. You sent for me, Seidmadr?"

"Ah. Good. I had hoped not to repeat myself this evening," said Mimir. "With your permission, General, what I have to say concerns your son as well."

"Fine, fine." Tyr had barely seen the boy today anyway; after his evaluation with Mimir, he'd been occupied with similar evaluations with tutors for all his academic subjects. "Come in, Loki. Messenger, if you would care for refreshment, Hoenir would be happy to direct you to the kitchens; you will be informed if I have a response for the palace."

So the three of them settled in, with brandy for Mimir and Tyr and cider for Loki; Tyr had decided to stock some in his study after last night, and it was worth it to see the look on the boy's face.

"You were saying, Seidmadr?"

"Loki, your foster father has just received word that the All-Father has collapsed into a mysterious sleep; as the news spreads, the people of the kingdom grow concerned." Loki looked up, worry etched into his every feature. "I wanted to reassure you that all is well with him, and because young people are often prone to blaming themselves for others' misfortune, to make sure you understood that his malady is not your fault. I will not say, however, that it has nothing to do with you."

The boy swallowed, and clutched his mug in both hands. "Sir?"

"How shall I explain…" Mimir took a deep breath and let it out slowly, leaning back in his seat. "The All-Father bears the burden of serving as a focal point for all the magic of Asgard, the ambient force which keeps us all healthy and long-lived, powers the Bifrost and Hlidskjalf, and more besides. It is the source of the All-Father's power, and is what has made Asgard mighty."

"I never knew this," said Tyr.

"Few do, even among those who concern themselves with the study of magic," replied Mimir. "The power itself is primal, raw seidr; only the volur and occasional seidmenn such as myself are able even to discern it, and only the All-Father is able to wield it on such a scale, and on a continual basis. However. I have conferred with other volur, and confirmed with them my suspicions that the force itself is detrimental to those who wield it."

"Harmful?" asked Loki. "Truly?"

"Indeed," said Mimir. "What has become evident, over the millennia, is that such great power is a burden which wears upon the mind; for example, after Buri had ruled for many centuries, he became paranoid and meddled in Bor's marriage, ultimately destroying it. Bor, in his turn, took the power when he became king, and it magnified his resentment into misogyny, leading to war and the systematic denigration, humiliation, and debasement of Vanaheim's female leadership. Now Odin bears that power, and it begins to work its way upon him as well." Mimir sighed heavily. "I have spent centuries traveling the realms and speaking discreetly with colleagues on this matter, hoping to find a solution."

"What have you found, Seidmadr?" asked Loki. "You—you _have_ found something, correct?"

"I have, finally. I had hoped not to have to use it, but Odin's descent into uncharacteristic behavior has only made clear to me that I ought to have returned to Asgard before now."

"And what did you discover?" pressed Tyr.

"I've found that perhaps the simplest solution would be to place a limit on how long a king of Asgard may serve," said Mimir. "Of course, I suspect none would appreciate that suggestion, and in any case, the length of time before Asgard's seidr begins to affect the king seems to vary from person to person.

"The second option, and the one which I employed earlier tonight, is to grant the king _rest_. He will slumber, surrounded by the magical forces of Asgard, but not required to bear them. His own energies will become attuned with the energies of Asgard, and in so doing he will be able to bear the burden of that power for longer periods of time before it begins again to harm him."

"The king allowed you to do this?" asked Tyr.

"He did. Eventually." Mimir reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "There was quite the shouting match beforehand. I finally had to reach into his mind and drag memories forth for my sister-son to observe, like illusion-theater, so that he could see the drastic differences between the man he is now and the man he used to be. He did not exactly appreciate that maneuver, as I'm sure you can imagine."

"And you think this enforced rest will… restore the character of the man we knew?" Tyr had no wish to attach himself to false hopes, but Mimir's description certainly did much to explain the king's change in behavior over the past several years. It had been a gradual thing, which Tyr himself had been able to shrug off at first as simply the strain of rule.

"I do. It may take more than one session of sleep to complete the healing, but I have put in place several safeguards to ensure that it will be effective. The most important of them, and the most relevant to the three of us here," and here Mimir began a slow, sly smile, "is that while the king rests, he will _dream._ The magic of Asgard will take his consciousness hither and yon throughout the realm; he will see where Asgard is most troubled, see who among his subjects suffers, and he will feel that suffering as if it were his own. If Odin yet remains a man and has not become a monster, he will feel empathy in his heart for the plight of his subjects; he will feel compassion; he will, one hopes, feel a desire to do something for the realm he has sworn to serve. And, if he should happen to feel Loki's suffering as part of that, well, that is only to the good, in my opinion."

Tyr nodded, but Loki looked troubled. "I-I don't… I don't want him to feel what I felt," he said quietly. "He will think I am weak."

Mimir snorted. "The trouble with Odin is that he already thinks you are weak, and he is wrong," he said firmly. "If he were to endure the pain that Hoenir described to me, he would see otherwise." His expression darkened to a truly fearsome scowl. "Glad I am for his sake that I was not brought to Asgard earlier, for if I had seen my own sister-son condone such barbarity, I may have forgotten the cause, and may well have taken him aside and inflicted the same upon him myself."

Loki shrank in his chair, and Tyr saw his throat work as he swallowed.

Tyr stepped in to redirect the conversation. "How long is Odin expected to remain in this state," he asked, "and what is Asgard to do without its king in the meantime?"

"In the meantime, they can simply appoint a regent if they wish," said Mimir with a shrug. "I care little. The queen is certainly competent, and respected enough, to serve in the position. As for the duration, well, it shall depend on a number of factors. How badly damaged Odin is currently. How stubborn he is. His overall health. Nevertheless, I expect he shall sleep for anywhere between three days and, at the far outside possibility, perhaps a month."

"A month?" Loki did not appear reassured by this. "How is he to survive?"

Mimir seemed at last to realize the effect his words were having on his student. "Healers have tended to patients who were unconscious for longer," he said gently. "And I informed them of exactly what I did and why, and how they can best aid their king. I have placed myself at their service, as my schedule permits, to assist. Indeed, I am monitoring his condition even now. You need not fear for him, I give you my word."

"Could I—may I see him?" Loki swallowed again, looking back and forth between the two elders. "Seidmadr? Sir?"

Mimir's eyes softened still further, though it was subtle; as fretful as Loki was, he might not have noticed the change. "It will not harm him to have visitors. Your loyalty and concern are commendable."

"I will make the arrangements," said Tyr. "You may see him first thing tomorrow, if you wish, although the afternoon must still be allocated to your training exercises with the other recruits."

Loki nodded jerkily. "I understand, sir."

There didn't seem to be much more to say to that, so Tyr thought about what sort of response Vingólf ought to supply to the capital. He penned a quick note indicating Loki's intent to visit under Tyr's supervision—until he had proof of the king's restoration to his old self, he'd be damned if he let Odin anywhere near the boy, even unconscious—and that they would await word of the All-Father's recovery. It was a moment's effort to hand the note off to a servant waiting in the corridor and send him to the kitchens for the palace messenger.

"Now, to other topics," said Mimir. "General, do you recall what I said to you regarding what can happen to untrained students of seidr, if they are not cautious by nature?"

"I do. Why?"

"It is _quite_ apparent that Loki is cautious by nature, at least where his seidr studies are concerned."

Meaning Loki was quite strong in his gift. The boy himself was ducking his head and hiding a blush and a tentative smile.

"Any dangerous gaps in his education?" asked Tyr.

"In fact, yes," said Mimir. "After he outstripped his mother's teachings, he went to the palace library and attempted to further his instruction there, which was admirable, but without any guidance it was inevitable that there would be things he would miss. In fact, there are odd, surprisingly advanced techniques he has learned while skipping over the intermediate steps that ordinarily provide a foundation. If I were not impressed by his dedication and intellect, I would be quite unnerved by how much he is missing."

"Sorry," said Loki, but Mimir just waved him off.

"It is of little import, really, save that we will be spending what may be several years filling in the missing pieces of your magical education," he said. "You will likely grow to resent being made to perform magic that you perceive as being beneath your current level of study."

"I hope that won't be the case, Seidmadr," Loki replied. "But I do know that sometimes I grow impatient." He shrugged uncomfortably. "Mainly I hope not to be a disappointment."

"I think you need not fear on that score," said Tyr. "Admittedly, what I know of seidr is next to nothing, but I've been receiving reports from your other tutors throughout the day as you completed your assessments. You're quite intelligent, for your age."

"Thank you, sir."

"We'll have you enrolled in the appropriate classes perhaps the day after tomorrow, and work out a reasonable schedule the day after that."

"Understood, sir." Loki swirled the cider in his mug. "May I ask you something?"

"Of course, Loki. Always."

"I… heard several of the tutors refer to a 'school of merit,' that they expected me to be part of. I am unfamiliar with the term."

"Ah." Of course. The boy had lived in the royal palace his entire life; his exposure to anyone outside of high nobility was likely quite limited. "Well, I am uncertain whether your schedule will permit it fully, but the educational system here in Vingólf is open to every student of the appropriate age and skill level. There are no exceptions made for whatever class of nobility or peasantry the student's family might happen to be. Anyone with the skill and willingness to study may do so."

"And… I would be placed with these other students?" Tyr saw the way the boy was struggling not to wrinkle his nose. "Commoners, and so forth?"

"Occasionally brilliant commoners," Tyr reminded him, one eyebrow raised. "One of the duties of a prince is diplomacy, Loki. It will be valuable to you to make acquaintances with people from different walks of life. You may be surprised by what you can learn from them." When Loki still looked dubious, he added, "Think of it as exposure to different cultures, such as you will have as you visit other realms when you are older."

"Yes, sir." He brightened after a second, smiling to himself. "My mother implied that I would travel far."

"Indeed you will," said Mimir, "as part of your education with me if nothing else. General Tyr also travels from time to time, though generally he is not regarded as a diplomat. You would actually be quite a help to him in that regard, were you to choose to take up the study with a bit more enthusiasm."

They talked for a few more minutes on the subject of schooling, of Mimir's opinion of his accommodations and Vingólf in general, of their plans for the next day, until finally Tyr stood.

"The hour is grown late enough, Loki, that you should retire and prepare for tomorrow. After your visit to the palace, you will be required at the training grounds, and I know you will perform better if you are well-rested."

"Yes, sir. Goodnight. Goodnight, Seidmadr."

 

 

* * *

After the boy was gone, Mimir sipped thoughtfully at his drink. "Respectful, for his age," he mused.

"Intimidated and still settling in," said Tyr. "His mother has done much to reassure him, and he has begun to test the waters with me, but after the mistreatment he's endured, real trust will be awhile in coming."

"Mm." Mimir nodded thoughtfully. "He's a genius, incidentally."

Tyr raised an eyebrow. "Is he?"

"Of the sort that will require strong drink for me to cope with, on occasion," said the sorcerer, startling a laugh out of Tyr. More seriously, he went on, "I've seen an intellect like his perhaps twice in all the thousands of years I've lived, General. His knowledge of theory is, as I've said, spotty, but his _grasp_ … you need explain the concept to him but once and he comprehends, extrapolates, and takes the next leap forward in understanding." He held up one finger, a signal for Tyr to wait while he finished his drink in one long pull. "He understands Mordenkainen's Theory of Disjunction already," he went on, pouring himself a second measure. "I won't bother explaining it, you would only be bored by the detail; suffice to say that it is _quite_ advanced, and that I did not understand that theory in its entirety until I was fully of age and a practicing seidmadr for nearly a millennium. It will be a challenge to keep his physical use of seidr down at a level his body can manage, when his mental grasp is so far along."

"That's quite an impressive claim," said Tyr.

"He's quite an impressive lad," countered Mimir. "Give that boy the tools and he may well accomplish the impossible."

Tyr shook his head. "I have yet to fathom what Odin was thinking, trying to crush the spirit of someone like him."

"It's quite simple; he saw the boy as a threat."

"Yes, but _why?_ He had the boy's loyalty, why not do what he could to keep it? If Odin were feeling especially callous, why not find a way to put the boy to use? Instead of throwing him away as he has."

"I am certain that the effect of Asgard's seidr on the All-Father's mind has had some influence on his behavior," said Mimir. "The Odin I knew could be callous at times, as you say, and stubborn; not one to listen to advice he did not like, but then, he was much younger when last we spoke." He swirled the liquor in his glass, staring into the fireplace for a moment. "But he was no monster. He would have had enough compassion to take in a foundling child and love it, if he found no other home for it."

"I hope for his sake that you are right, and that whatever has become of him is reversible," said Tyr. "The man I swore my oaths to, the man whom I spoke with nightly during the war with Jotunheim… I respected that man. He was worthy of it. This cruel creature who would attack his own son, I barely recognize, much less respect."

"I am confident in my abilities, but I pray, too. For his sake, for the boy's…" said Mimir.

"For Asgard's," finished Tyr.

The old seidmadr nodded. "For Asgard's."

* * *

 

The next day dawned bright and clear, promising to be a little warmer than usual for the season. Tyr smiled, stretching naked in his chambers before reaching for his clothing. It would be a good day for what he had in mind.

"I'd like you to go to the barracks," he informed Hoenir, handing him orders he'd penned the night before. "Convey these to the trainers; they are to assemble all the cohorts for general inspection at the third hour after midday, and then this one goes to the logistics officer. He is to notify my usual judges to meet me in my office there, one hour prior."

A moment later, he was knocking on his son's door. The boy answered, a bit bleary-eyed but already more than half-dressed. "Did you sleep well?"

"Like a doe in hunting season, sir," said Loki morosely. His voice was a little hoarse, still sleepy, and then his eyes grew more alert. "I mean, I slept well enough, thank you. I am worried for Fa—for the All-Father. I was a bit restless."

"I understand," said Tyr, hiding a smile. Apparently a sleepy Loki was one with less skill at hiding his emotional state, because he looked right now a bit like he'd like to bite something, while also letting the worry for Odin bleed through into his expression. "I have every confidence that Odin will recover, and quickly, too; nevertheless, I fully support your wish to see him for yourself. If you like, you may travel with me, to get there sooner. We can eat on the road, though you'll want a light breakfast rather than anything too substantial."

The boy nodded, and stifled a yawn with his fist. "I would like that, sir, thank you. I promise I won't keep you long. I'll be ready soon."

* * *

"What are your preferred weapons styles?" he asked, once they were underway. Since they were going directly to the training ground after his visit to Odin, Loki was dressed in his training armor rather than his official harness, with the black tunic that marked the trainees of the lowest level cohorts, unofficially known as the Ravens. The mid-level cohorts wore gray tunics and were called the Wolves, while the recruits closest to graduation into the ranks wore brown, and were known as the Bear cohorts. Loki would blend in with the dozens of other trainees at his level.

Or at least, he would at first. The boy had mentioned, back in his palace chambers in that first conversation they'd had together, that his trainer refused to let him advance in the ranks, and Tyr had a suspicion that it was Kaetilfast's prejudices that held the boy back more than any deficiency of skill.

"I am skilled enough in sword work, spear, and axe-and-shield, sir," Loki replied. "My preference is for spear, and—and knives."

"An uncommon choice," remarked Tyr neutrally, and Loki shrank a little in his saddle. He looked up again in confusion when Tyr went on, "Do you prefer close-in fighting, or throwing knives?"

"Er… both?"

"You weren't expecting me to approve your choice."

"Well—Master Kaetilfast and some of the others claim it's a woman's weapon."

Tyr rolled his eyes. "If it can make an enemy dead, it's an effective weapon, and I could care less about the gender of the person wielding it. That's more of the older school of thought, same as the idiotic belief that only women can or should use seidr. And with you being Jotun, most of those gender restrictions don't even apply, anyway."

Loki tensed so quickly that his horse shied, and he took a moment to bring the beast back under control. "What do you mean?"

Tyr shrugged. "You are not the same species as the Aesir," he said calmly. "In falcons, the females are larger and more formidable; in foxes, they are identical in size. Why should the sex characteristics of one species apply to another? Why should the foolish prejudices of a handful of _old men_ in that species have anything to do with you?"

"Oh." Loki's face flushed a little as he fiddled with his reins. "I thought… I thought you meant something different."

"Mm. Care to share?"

Loki cleared his throat, and blushed a little redder. "Not really, sir. Something I'd overheard once. Probably just another false belief about the Jotnar."

Ah. Tyr had a good idea which one he was talking about, given the topic, and decided not to fluster the boy just now with the knowledge that it was generally true. The Jotnar referred to Aesir, mortals, and some of the other species of the Nine Realms as "broken people" or  "halflings", because in their eyes, anyone who could not both sire and bear children was defective, "half" a person. Or perhaps it was because among those other species, only half were capable of siring children, and half capable of bearing. Wherever the origin of the phrase, the Jotnar generally had more respect for "whole" species like themselves, and were baffled by the notion of cultural gender norms.

Loki was struggling with enough new information just now; it would be better for him to hear such knowledge some other time than right before visiting the sickbed of the man who had raised him, much less before his skills test with a series of deadly weapons.

"I noticed that Master Völund gave you quite an impressive set of throwing knives, on our way from the capital yesterday," he said instead, and allowed the conversation to continue from there.


	22. Advancement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki visits Odin in the Odinsleep, then demonstrates his abilities on the training grounds.

The interior of the palace was pleasantly cool after their ride across Idavoll and into the capital. Loki's approach, thankfully, had attracted far less attention this time, at least partly because he was dressed so inconspicuously, but there had still been those who noticed, and caught Tyr's eye or the prince's to offer a nod or a quiet greeting. The general was relieved to read concern on the faces of the people, and not blame or suspicion. It could certainly have been easy to lay responsibility for Odin's collapse at Loki's feet, but apparently word of the proceedings from the Thing had spread far enough that no one saw him as a likely culprit for whatever had happened.

Hm. Or possibly the healers had reassured everyone, told them the basics of what Mimir had done and why.

He and Loki dismounted in the courtyard and waited for the grooms to rush forward and take their horses. "Nervous?" Tyr asked his son.

Loki shook his head, starting up the stairs two at a time. "Worried. I know you are angry with him, and maybe you do not care—"

"That is not the case."

The boy paused at that, and looked him over warily. "…Even so. For all that may have gone between us, he is still—he _was_ still my father for my entire life."

"Of course, Loki." Tyr reached out and let his hand grip the boy's shoulder, for all that he wouldn't feel it through his armor, and gave him a little shake so that he could. "I respect your father a great deal. To learn that something has been working against him all this time, deteriorating his mental faculties… I wish to see him recovered, perhaps as much as you do."

Loki looked down and away at that, nodding after a second and continuing on up the steps.

The prince led the way to the healing wing, and was shown into a private room hung with gauze curtains and lit with braziers. Odin lay in state, almost, on his bed; the blanket was drawn up to his chest and his hands were clasped over it rather than lying at his side. There was a glimmering dome of energy over the bed that Tyr had never seen before, and which raised the hair on his arms and the back of his neck as he approached. Loki was staring at it as if mesmerized, the gold limning his face with a soft glow.

"What is it?" Tyr asked.

"Protective," Loki replied absently, before blinking and shaking himself. "It's a… like a shelter. I can feel the seidr and see some of the weave of it; it's meant to be protective. It's very strong."

"Mimir did this?"

"I think he must have," said Loki. "I've never seen anything quite like this in Asgard before. Here, the signature, the way the two components are linked—" He glanced up then, a slightly chagrined expression on his face. "You probably can't see that, can you? I always forget what people can and can't detect."

"How long have you been able to see seidr?" Tyr asked, curious.

The boy just shrugged. "My whole life—or, well, I have to shift my focus a little in order to see it, but it's almost always there when I look. It's strange to me when I can't see it whenever I want. Strange to imagine that anyone can't, without also being blind." He turned back to the man on the bed, hugging himself a little. "I can see it around him, right now. It's almost as if he's floating in it. I hope he doesn't drown."

"Mimir says he will be fine. Better than before, even."

"I hope he's right."

They stood in silence for a few minutes more, Loki fretfully tracing his fingers back and forth along his lip. Tyr wondered what thoughts were chasing themselves through that head of his, and hoped that he wasn't blaming himself despite Mimir's words last night.

"My prince? General." There was a soft tap at the door, and they turned to see a healing attendant waiting for them. "It is best if the All-Father is not disturbed for more than a few minutes at a time."

"But you are monitoring him, correct?" Worry and arrogance blended together in the boy's voice, reminding Tyr that his charge was accustomed to a certain degree of privilege despite the way Odin had mistreated him.

"Of course, my prince," said the attendant. "But it seems to be less disruptive if we do so from a slight distance. This room is warded, and the monitoring spells are placed on the walls and doors. We sit just outside, observing them all."

Tyr ushered Loki out, reluctant though the boy was to obey him. "You take it in shifts, I presume?" he asked calmly.

"Yes, General. Every three hours a new attendant takes over, and every nine hours Lady Eir herself comes to hear our reports and search for any unexpected changes in the All-Father's condition."

"And what is his condition, currently?"

"He sleeps," said the attendant with a little shrug. "Physically, he is well, and sleeps deeply. At the seidr level, he… well. It is difficult to explain, even for those of us who work with seidr. He is not precisely ill, nor wounded, but neither is he wholly well. We have noticed a gradual… balancing, I suppose, of his seidr, since he succumbed to this sleep. He is becoming more attuned to the energies of Yggdrasil, and Asgard. If the attunement continues, he will emerge stronger for it than he has ever been."

Loki blinked at that, and the look of hope on his face was almost painful for Tyr to see. He himself was enough older, and cynical and jaded enough, to wait until Odin woke. Then he would see if the man showed any remorse for the way he'd treated his younger son, or if Tyr would still want to beat some remorse into him.

* * *

 

The general and his son parted ways at the entrance to the training grounds, one to meet his cohort and the other to his office. Most recruits lived in the barracks and worked alongside their cohort members; only a few of the highest nobility were excused from that duty, but with the understanding that they had other responsibilities, not that they were privileged enough to be able to avoid them. Tyr had personally escorted more than one pampered son off his ancestral lands and back to the mess hall to boil turnips for the troops.

Loki being separated from his cohort likely caused some difficulties for him, actually. He wouldn't be able to form as close a bond with the rest of his mates as they would have between themselves, leaving Loki perpetually an outsider. If he were quiet and strange to them to begin with, with his seidr use, and then marked for ridicule by Odin… it was likely the boy had endured training with a target painted on his back.

Well, Tyr planned to put an end to that today if at all possible.

"Gentlemen," he said, speaking to his usual band of judges; sturdy, sober, reliable men not easily swayed by rumor or prejudice. "We'll put the Ravens in the front of the formation today. I plan to drill everyone bottom to top. Refresh the memories of the Wolves and Bears on the basics, and see how much the Ravens have really learned."

"Standard tap out rules, sir?" asked one of them.

"Aye. If the technique is wrong, or sloppy, they move off and sit down. The first full cohort out will have extra training and their instructor will be brought up for inspection."

"Would you like us to keep an eye on Kaetilfast's group?" another said, half-smiling.

Tyr sighed. "I won't pretend that this inspection doesn't have something to do with His Highness," he said. "But I don't want that to be obvious to _him,_ and I do suspect Kaetilfast of letting his attitude interfere with the advancement of his highborn students."

"Again," said one of the judges. Others exchanged glances and frowns, a couple of them folding their arms in annoyance.

"Aye, again. If you find that His Highness has been held back for a plausible reason, that's one thing—some area to improve upon, some gap in his training or a mental hurdle to overcome. I can tolerate that. But if he is clearly ready for the Wolves, if it is truly obvious, then Kaetilfast and I will be having words. Again. And they will likely be the last words he and I share as superior officer and subordinate."

"All respect, General, he's overdue for being tossed out on his ass," said Frodi, the first judge who had spoken. "He's a sadistic smear of excrement who enjoys making life miserable for all his recruits, and worse for the high-born ones."

"Permission _granted_ to speak freely," said Tyr dryly, and the other judges chuckled.

"Apologies, General," said Frodi with a little salute. "But I doubt that I am the only one to feel this way. We see him in the ring, every three days; and again, I intend no disrespect, but the nature of your position means that, well, you don't."

"Understood," said Tyr with a nod. "I don't disagree with you; that is why I keep you as judges in the first place. You see more of the recruits on a regular basis than I ever can. I deal with the ranks after they've graduated." He shrugged. "So. I want the same impartial judgment from you as always, with an eye toward seeing who among each rank is ready for advancement to the next. Questions?"

There were a few, but they were easily squared away, and within a few minutes Tyr was able to dismiss the judges to prepare.

* * *

 

The general stepped up onto the observation platform, along with the drill instructors and cohort trainers, and a few other officers of higher rank who had come to watch the proceedings. With a practiced gesture, he found the communications link and clipped one end to his collar, placed the other in his ear, and settled into his seat.

Before him, the recruits stood in groups of eight, four to a row, with little spaces between each group to mark the different cohorts. There were roughly three thousand young men in a sea of black, gray, and brown sleeves, standing at attention with short swords strapped to their belts.

He was pleased to note that, with their helmets on, Tyr could not make out which of the Ravens was Loki. He could observe without bias, then, and see which of them did well or poorly, without attachment to any single recruit.

" _Ready—draw!"_ came the call from the arena, and three thousand blades hissed as one as they were pulled from their scabbards.

 _"Low guard—block—strike!"_ The recruits moved through each step with precision, beginning with the most basic commands, which were gradually given faster and faster until students began to fumble the steps. The judges moved through the ranks, observing closely while the commands were issued, until finally the first few recruits were tapped on the shoulder and ordered to fall out.

After the speed drills came the basic combinations.

 _"Three-six-two!"_ for example, referring to a mid-left, low-right, and high-right strike, tested speed and footwork. Most of the Ravens did fine though this section, though a few were tapped out. Some of the Wolves fumbled the steps as well, and Tyr frowned. Those would have to take the test again, separately, on another date.

Next were the named combinations, not much different from the basics at first, except that they gradually grew more complex, up to eight or even a dozen moves in sequence. Some of the most advanced contained thirty or more steps apiece. Beginner-level trainees weren't taught the entire range, of course, so Tyr expected to see them falling out much more frequently now.

_"Thunder falls!_ _… Grasp the wind!"_

By now, many Ravens were not even waiting for a judge to tap their shoulder; at an unfamiliar command, they would salute and step out on their own. The Wolves were also tapping out more frequently now, although most of these combinations were still within their range.

Finally the Ravens were nearly completely weeded out of the assembly; there were no complete cohorts anywhere in the ranks of black-sleeved recruits, several gone entirely.

"Hold," Tyr said into the communications link. All the recruits stood panting, swords held in the final position from the last combination. "Are we down to one hundred Ravens?"

There was a pause as one of the judges moved forward to count them. "Aye, General," came the reply.

"Advancement test," said Tyr. "Have them remove their helmets."

 _"Sheath! At ease!"_ The remaining trainees lowered their weapons with muted but obvious relief, and the recruits around the perimeter applauded. Then they grew quiet as the judges moved through the ranks of the remaining Ravens, ordering them individually to remove their helms, and taking their names down.

"Name?"

"Haakon Vraisson, sir."

"Remove your helm. Name?"

"Galti Grimasson, sir!"

And so on down the line.

"Remove your helm… name?"

"Loki Odinsson. O-odinson-Tyrsson. Sir."

Tyr smiled, and listened as the judges moved down the line.

* * *

 

The Wolves were ordered to clear off left and right and rejoin their cohorts; the Bears were ordered to the back of the arena, freeing up space for the remaining one hundred Ravens. They all stood at ease, helms under one arm, but even from the distance of the observation platform, he could see them trading glances or occasionally fidgeting nervously. They all knew what an advancement test looked like, but they also all knew that the test usually came with more notice than this. Loki, for his part, held as still as any court-trained noble knew how, although he occasionally rubbed the fingertips of his sword hand together.

Finally, one of the judges made the announcement: " _Advancement test!"_ and the Ravens off to the sides cheered.

The candidates were grouped together into temporary cohorts, with ten to a unit instead of eight. Each cohort was teamed with four judges, and set to work.

There were tests of skill with the sword once more, this time squaring off against a partner; not full-fledged spars but more of a quiz: "Left, strike high; right, your response? Left, respond—right, respond. Good. Right, strike mid-level; left, your response?" And so on. Another cohort was issued spears and put through similar drills; others were set to wrestling matches or knife work. Every several minutes, the candidates were ordered to drop their weapons and rotate to the next station.

Tyr did his best to remain impartial, but it was hard to miss that Loki's footwork was nearly perfect, and he showed genuine talent with the spear. When the judges set them to partner drills, he often chose moves that confused his partner, even when the responses were performed slowly and on command. He even managed to disarm one partner completely, though he apologized profusely for it.

"The boy's good, General," he heard quietly in his communication link. "Damn good. No idea why Kaetilfast held him back."

No one else on the platform had a link, and none of them needed to know what was being said down on the arena floor. "Understood," he said neutrally.

Finally the rotation was complete, and the temporary cohorts formed back up at the fore of the arena. The judges gathered to one side and began to confer, while the recruits fell silent. After a few minutes, two of them moved to one end of the line and began working their way down, dismissing those who had not passed. There were salutes and hand-clasps, and a few shoulder-slaps, and Tyr knew the judges would be offering encouragement and suggestions for where the recruits might focus their energies so that they could improve.

Loki was not among the candidates that they released. There were sixty-four who remained, enough for eight new Wolf cohorts to form. The instructors would distribute the students evenly in each cohort, making sure to include those who had done best on the tests alongside those who had done more poorly, so that no one cohort could be singled out as "better" than the others. The most skilled recruits would ordinarily become cohort leaders, although again, those who were noble-born and did not live with at the training grounds were generally passed over for the honor.

 _"Wolves—greet your youngest brothers!"_ came the call, and the cohorts along the sidelines stood and swarmed the field in a raucous mass of gray sleeves, nearly burying the black-sleeved candidates in an onslaught of hugs and back slaps, and occasional punches of greater or lesser severity.

 _"Ravens—form up!"_ The remaining cohorts assembled, and Tyr took note of which groups were missing only one or two members, as well as those that had just lost more than four. An instructor might have especially inept students, or might be doing a poor job teaching, if no one in his cohort was ready to advance; at the other side, an instructor might be especially good, or might be holding his students back without cause, if he had just lost more than half his members.

"Instructors, if you would rejoin your cohorts," said Tyr. The observation platform quickly emptied, and Tyr followed them down to the arena floor at a slower pace. "Frodi?"

"Asbjorn's group were full of layabouts this term, through no fault of his own," came the report. "He's set them extra drills time and again and they refuse to move their lazy asses."

"Redistribute them among the other incomplete cohorts," ordered Tyr. "Maybe their new brothers will persuade them to apply themselves."

"Cohort Five and Six only started training six weeks ago," another judge continued. "I would not expect any of them to have been ready so soon, and they weren't. Again, no fault of the instructor."

"Very good."

"Kaetilfast's cohort advanced three this time, General," said Frodi. "Nothing out of the ordinary, except…"

"Aye. I know." Tyr strolled up to the man, who stood perfectly still but still managed to project an air of agitation. "Sergeant Kaetilfast."

"General."

"Congratulations on advancing three recruits."

Kaetilfast seemed to relax at that. "Thank you, sir," he said, the beginnings of a smug little grin twisting his features.

"Their names?"

"I. General?"

"They were still your charges only an hour ago," Tyr said mildly. "Surely you have not forgotten their names already."

"Of course not, General. Eyvindsson, Cnutsson, Odinsson." He hesitated. "Odinsson-Tyrsson."

"Mm. How long were they each in your cohort, Sergeant?"

"Sir?"

"It's a simple question, Sergeant."

Kaetilfast cleared his throat. "I-I would need to double check my records…"

"No need. Eyvindsson! Cnutsson, Odinsson-Tyrsson! Step forward."

The three new Wolves fell in, two of them nervously, the third hiding his expression in a fashion Tyr was beginning to become familiar with.

"How long were you each members of your former cohort?"

"Two years, weaponsmaster."

"Three years, weaponsmaster."

Loki cleared his throat. "Seven years, weaponsmaster."

Kaetilfast tried to hide his sneer as the boy spoke, but not quickly enough.

"I see. And how many advancement tests have you each stood for?"

"This was my third, weaponsmaster."

"This was also my third, weaponsmaster."

"This was my first, weaponsmaster."

The first two boys blinked in surprise.

"Your first?" confirmed Tyr. "After seven years as a Raven?"

"Yes, weaponsmaster."

"Sergeant. Explain your reasoning."

Kaetilfast's lip curled. "He wasn't ready, General."

"Clearly he _was_ ," Tyr corrected him. "Frodi?"

The judge stepped forward; Tyr said nothing, only held out his hand and waited. Frodi immediately placed the clipboard in his hand that held the judges' commentary and scores.

"Odinsson-Tyrsson… ah. 'Impeccable footwork'… Wrestling, 'makes up for size difference with speed and agility'; sword, 'performs all maneuvers with confidence'; spear, 'recommend for advanced training immediately'; knife, 'recommend for advanced training immediately'; additional comments, 'judge looks forward to seeing candidate with thrown weapons,' 'shows promise in spear combat beyond scope of these drills.'" Loki was standing much taller, blinking while trying to maintain a stoic face, as Tyr handed the clipboard back to the judge. "Try again, Sergeant."

Kaetilfast said nothing, only turning red as his mouth worked. Tyr nodded.

"You just cannot stand the noble born, can you?" Tyr said quietly, shaking his head. "I've warned you before about this prejudice."

"It is no prejudice to have no patience for pampered _children_ who do nothing to earn their position."

"You had enough patience to keep the boy under your thumb for seven years," Tyr pointed out mildly. "And I don't think I need to repeat the judges' commentary to refute your assertion that he has not earned his position with the Wolves."

Again, Kaetilfast said nothing; that was his right, after all, since Tyr had not explicitly demanded a response from him, but it only made the general shake his head again.

"Remove your cloak, Kaetilfast," he said. "And your sergeants' brooch, and your sword."

The man's eyes widened and he actually paled a little behind his beard. "You cannot—"

"Cannot? I?" Tyr merely raised one eyebrow and waited.

"This is because of your favoritism for the prince," sneered Kaetilfast, and Tyr rolled his eyes.

"Aye, the prince with whom I had barely spoken before three days ago. Nepotism is a bit difficult to demonstrate between total strangers, Kaetilfast." His voice hardened, and the recruits and judges around him all tensed. "Remove your cloak, or I will remove it for you. You have abused your position for the last time."

"What will you do, pound me into the dirt and take it from my corpse?" The sneer had grown into a snarl, but Tyr only shook his head.

"There are laws against a soldier striking a civilian in such a manner," he replied.

Kaetilfast launched himself at him, but his anger hampered him, and centuries away from the battlefield had left him soft. Tyr took only a half-step back to set himself, held up his hand at the level of Kaetilfast's throat, and let him run right up into his grip. With a step in and a twist, he flung Kaetilfast to the ground, his free hand coming up to rip the cloak from the other man's shoulders as he fell. The brooch that had held it snapped and flew off into the sand, to lie winking in the sunlight.

Tyr casually draped the cloak across his arm, not bothering to look at the man on the ground, who was rubbing at his bruised throat and coughing. "There are also laws about civilians attacking soldiers, Kaetilfast, but since you seem confused about your position here, I will not have you arrested—this time. But let me be clear: Your discharge papers will be delivered by the end of the day. You are no longer a sergeant in Asgard's armies, nor a soldier of any rank. You are not to show your face on these grounds ever again, on pain of imprisonment or worse."

"All this over a spoiled brat?"

Now Tyr met his eyes, and saw a man who could not look past his own injuries, could not take responsibility for all he had done to find himself here, today, as Tyr took his livelihood from him.

"All this," he said, "because you committed atrocities on the battlefield that saw you knocked back down to sergeant and denied the right to combat or advancement, but rather than learn from your mistake and share your expertise, you decided to take your punishment out on the people around you. In your bitterness you decided to put the noble-born recruits under your charge through hell, rather than offering them the training that Asgard asked of you. The training that they require in order to _survive_ on the field, Kaetilfast. How many men have gone to their deaths because you refused to teach them what they needed in order to live, hmm? How many are dead, directly or indirectly, because of you?" Tyr shook his head one last time. "No more. I have tolerated your abuse of recruits, your bitterness, and your effect on trainee morale, for the last time. You are done here."

He jerked his chin toward the entrance, and two of the judges stepped forward to hoist Kaetilfast to his feet. The former soldier shook them off with bared teeth, and dusted himself off.

Tyr turned to the recruits, dismissing the man utterly, and ordered them back to their new cohorts. Loki's glance flicked to his just briefly before he obeyed, with the other two close behind him. Next, Tyr turned to Frodi. "Pick three men. The civilian gets one hour to pack his things, under their supervision, then they can escort him off the grounds. With or without force is entirely up to him."

"You've not seen the last of me, _General_ ," Kaetilfast said.

"Yes, I have," replied Tyr, without turning around. "Now get out."


	23. Late Night Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki's sleep is troubled, so he and Tyr have a late-night conversation. Later, Odin wakes from his sleep and summons his son.

A boy's scream woke Tyr in the middle of the night—again. He sighed, and pulled on a shirt, making his way down the corridor to Loki's chambers. This was the third night in a row that nightmares had plagued the lad. Not merely unpleasant dreams, they had to be really something to drag a heavily sleeping, exhausted adolescent out of slumber.

It was even more entertaining when Loki's magic got involved in whatever he was experiencing. Tyr had never heard of a person being able to wield seidr in their sleep, but apparently, according to Mimir, Loki was stuffed so full of magical energy that sometimes it _leaked_. Vingólf had never experienced earthquakes before this, that was for certain.

"Loki?" Tyr tapped softly on the door to Loki's chambers. "May I come in?"

There was no answer, but after a moment the latch clicked, and the door swung open. Lamps lit themselves as Tyr stepped inside, but Loki himself was nowhere to be seen.

"Loki?"

"In here," came the subdued reply.

Tyr found the lad sitting up in bed, the blankets twisted around his legs, still covered in a fine layer of sweat. The boy waved his hand, and another lamp lit itself, allowing Tyr to see the pale face and haunted expression, and the circles beneath Loki's eyes.

"Care to talk about it?" he asked.

"I'd rather not," said Loki, just as he had for the past three nights.

Tyr thought a moment, then tipped his head toward the door. "Come with me."

"Sir?"

"Just come. It will be better than trying to go back to sleep right away."

Loki sighed heavily, but climbed out of his bed and reached for a robe, shuffling along on bare feet as Tyr led him out into the corridor.

"May I ask where we are going, sir?"

Tyr frowned at the trepidation in his voice. "The kitchens. Why, what were you expecting?"

"I wasn't…" At Tyr's raised eyebrow, he looked down and mumbled, "I thought you might tell me to pack my things. I'm more trouble than I'm worth."

Tyr stopped dead and reached out for Loki, who flinched as the general rested a hand on each shoulder. "I never want you to think such things, Loki. Not here. _Never_ here. I did not take you in because I expected some sort of repayment for my _efforts_. You are here because you deserve to be somewhere safe. What kind of safety would you really have, if your time here were conditional based on some… secret, arbitrary standard of behavior?"

Loki only hunched his shoulders further. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

Tyr winced, but said nothing more until they arrived at the kitchens. Olief was still there, muttering over an accounts sheet and jotting notes as he flipped through a large book with stains on the pages. "Evening, Olief. I hope we are not disturbing you."

"Ah, good evening to you as well, my lord. My prince." He looked the boy over with a knowing eye. "Hot milk with honey, then?"

"We can make it ourselves if you are busy," Tyr began, but the head cook cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"Nonsense. You'd only scorch the milk or misplace my pots afterward. I'll not have it," he grumbled, but he winked at the boy as he moved past, gathering the things he needed. Within a minute, the pot was over the fire, and Olief was handing the spoon to Loki. "Stir that, boy, every few seconds or so. You want the milk to heat evenly without burning."

"You can burn milk?" asked Loki, tired enough not to balk at being given orders by a servant.

"Takes a bit of effort, but aye, you can," said Olief. "Run the spoon along the bottom of the pot… aye, that's it, just like that."

"So what troubles you tonight?" Tyr asked. Loki looked up sharply, but Tyr was looking past him to Olief, who ran one hand along his bald head and blew out a sigh.

"Nothing too terrible, my lord, just putting together the food plan for the coming month. I knew warriors ate more than us reg'lar folk, but I hadn't expected sorcerers to eat even more than that. And now there are _two_ of them on the premises. I thought all these meals for the healing wing were going to the patients and staff, not to Lady Runa by herself."

"I'm sure Lady Runa would be thrilled to hear you compare her eating habits to a warrior's," said Tyr.

"Heh." Olief reached for the mugs and pot of honey. "Seidmadr Mimir eats as much as three of you, General, and the boy is not only a _growing_ boy, he has even more magic to him than Runa and Mimir put together. We'll have to plant extra fields just to have enough crops to get through next year."

"I'm sorry," Loki began, but Tyr waved him off.

"Olief is joking. He likes to complain when he is busy, but he complains more when there is not enough for him to do."

Olief's face split in a gap-toothed grin. "Bah, the general is right. Do not trouble yourself over my blathering, there's a good lad. Are you stirring the milk?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is it true you can move things about with just your seidr? Could you stir the milk without using your hands?"

"I…" Loki glanced at Tyr apprehensively, but the general merely shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose I could, but often it takes more effort to use seidr to do a thing than it does to just… to just _do_ it, the regular way. It would be less work, magically speaking, to move the milk without a spoon than it would be to move the _spoon_ while the milk resists it."

"Show me."

Loki blinked, his mouth hanging open. "Sir?"

Olief gestured toward the pot. "If it pleases you, I'd like to see how something like that happens. Don't get many seidkonur or volur around here, and they tend to keep to the temple. If it's not offensive…"

"No, no. It's not—it's just that, people don't—they, um."

Tyr could guess. "You're not accustomed to anyone being interested in your seidr as opposed to disparaging it?"

Loki grimaced a little. "You could say that."

"Hmph." Olief sat back down at his account sheet. "Bunch of idiots, them who would mock a man who could turn them into frogs."

Loki ducked his head, but Tyr could see he was hiding a little smile. "I can't actually do that yet, sir. Maybe someday."

Olief barked a laugh and went back to his work. "Well, when you can do it, let me know. I've a few people I'd like to see hopping around in a swamp somewhere."

It was only a few minutes before the head cook declared the milk ready; he poured it into the mugs and added a liberal dollop of honey to each, stirring it in and passing the mugs across the table to Loki and Tyr.

"Thank you, Olief," said the general.

"No trouble." He flipped his book closed with a thump and put it in a drawer with the accounts sheet, then stretched until his back popped. "You two get some sleep at some point. Or at least warn me if you'll want your meal served in bed in the morning."

"Of course."

Once Olief was gone, Loki said tentatively, "I've never helped cook anything before." He blew on the milk before tasting it. "A prince does not mingle with the servants."

"Well, you're still a prince, but I am generally more familiar with my staff than most of the court would be," said Tyr with a shrug. "If it weren't for Olief, no one at Vingólf would eat anything besides burned eggs and toast. It costs me nothing to show him the respect he deserves, and gains me plenty, in loyalty and the quality of service he provides."

"Everything is politics," said Loki sagely. Sleepily, but still with the air of someone who spoke from experience.

"How do you mean?" Tyr asked, hiding his amusement.

Loki blinked, apparently not realizing he had spoken aloud, and ducked into his seat. Tyr frowned, but hid his lingering annoyance from the boy as best he could. He had become accustomed to anger, lately, on Loki's behalf; that he should so readily expect ridicule or worse—that he should be plagued with nightmares at his age, all of it—was reprehensible. "You need not answer if you do not wish to," he said calmly, "but it sounded as if you had an interesting thought. I admit I am curious." He slurped at his mug, making Loki blink again. "The day I fostered you I said I wanted to get to know you better. That hasn't changed."

Loki cleared his throat nervously. "It… sometimes I used to leave the palace and go into the city, or to other realms, without… without the royal entourage. Thor does it too. It—I don't go seeking danger, or anything, I just—sometimes it is easier to simply go to the market, or visit the library at the Royal University of Vanaheim, things like that, without having to announce my presence and go through all the formalities. I'm—I'm sorry?"

"I have yet to hear you describe any wrongdoing," said Tyr, and enjoyed the tentative, relieved smile that the boy tried to cover. "Go on."

Loki took a sip of his own drink, gathering his thoughts. "Well, it's just… even when no one knows who I am, when I am not making a political statement by _appearing_ somewhere, I still see politics. The way people behave toward a beggar compared to a merchant compared to a guard. The little rituals of courtesy that make it easier for someone to get what they want, and how those change depending on the setting. Knowing whom to speak to and whom to avoid, for whatever reason. It's just… I mean, to me at least, it seems like everything is politics, on some level."

"That's an interesting way to look at it," said Tyr. "As if politics is simply human interaction written large, an interaction between nations or governments rather than between individual people."

"Well, it seemed that way to me. It doesn't—you're not upset?"

Tyr tipped his head, studying the boy's face. "Why would I be?"

Loki glanced away, then down at his mug. "Fa—the All-Father implied… well, no, he outright said, that thinking of people that way was underhanded. Conniving, he called it. Deceitful. But I only—to me, observing people like that isn't so different from figuring out what you need to do to convince the Thing to vote your way on some measure that affects the whole of the realm. You are right, the scale is different, but that's really the only difference." He seemed to notice that he had become more animated while he spoke, and shrank back down again. "At least, that is how it seems to me."

Tyr nodded. "Makes sense. I think you're right."

Loki actually gaped at him for a second, speechless, before mastering his expression, and Tyr found he couldn't hold back a smile. "You seem surprised."

"Well, _yes_. I mean—what about the warrior's code? To be direct and straightforward, honest and forthright in all things? Is it not dishonorable to, to manipulate people? To… take the indirect approach?"

"Hm. How shall I put this." Tyr squinted a little in thought. "I suppose you could say that I have a habit after all these years of viewing everything in terms of the battlefield. Where are my forces arrayed? Who are my allies? What can I expect the outcome of this or that encounter to be? And there are several philosophers on many realms, even primitive Midgard, that view war as an extension of politics, or as the performance of politics by other means. You speak of observing individual people and finding out how to get what you want from them. I speak of knowing the strengths and weaknesses of the forces arrayed against me… so that I can find out how to get what I want from them."

Loki made a noise somewhere between a laugh and an exclamation before catching himself and hiding behind his mug of hot milk.

"I think we have more in common, temperamentally speaking, than either of us might realize," said Tyr.

Loki looked at him thoughtfully before nodding. "You may be right, sir."

"I won't press you to talk about these nightmares you've been having," Tyr went on, watching as Loki's face fell. "I won't. But if you ever do decide you want to discuss them, I'm here. I think it might help you to have a listening ear, if you're anything like me. If not me, then perhaps Mimir. Or the Lady Eir has offered more than once, from what I understand. Your mother, even. It's up to you, but I think it would do you good."

"I'll… I will think about it, sir." Loki met his eyes just briefly. "Thank you."

Trust was earned, Tyr reminded himself, and earning it from a skittish, mistreated boy took time. Fortunately, Tyr had plenty of that, and plenty of patience. The boy would come around, eventually.

 

 

* * *

Odin slept for nine days and nights before Loki burst into Tyr's study. "Seidmadr Mimir says that the All-Father has woken," he exclaimed. "He says he felt the enchantments fade, only a few minutes ago."

Mimir himself tapped on the door frame a moment later. "May we enter, General?"

Loki froze, and as Tyr watched he actually paled a little; Tyr hid a grimace. Still expecting punishment for the exuberance of youth. Well, they hadn't even lived together for a month yet, and these first months were always the hardest with a new foster son.

"Of course, Seidmadr. My son. Come, sit. These are glad tidings." As they both stepped further into the room, he pulled out the bottles of brandy and cider and began to pour. "Do you have any other information for us, Seidmadr?"

"Only that the sleep functioned exactly as I hoped that it would," said Mimir. "At least, insofar as I am able to tell from this distance. He slept deeply and awoke smoothly. Nothing in my monitoring spells indicates that anything has gone amiss."

"I presume you will wish to check on your sister-son personally," said Tyr.

"I shall. I wished to inform you that Loki's lessons with me would be suspended for the day, unless you gave permission for him to come with me. I understand if you would prefer not to allow the boy into the presence of the man who mistreated him."

Hm. Tyr thought about that, and glanced over at the boy himself. Loki wore an expression of trepidation mingled with hope, and Tyr knew he would not like the words he was about to hear.

"I think it best if Loki remain here for now." Loki's expression fell, then turned sullen, and Tyr addressed him directly. "It is only temporary," he said. "Mimir's enchantment is meant to help heal Odin's mind, if you recall. We do not yet know whether it has done its work, and I will _not_ have you exposed again to the sort of cruelty Odin has shown himself to be capable of. If Mimir declares it safe, then perhaps you may visit the palace, but I will accompany you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," said Loki, still clearly unhappy.

"Do you understand _why_?" Tyr pressed.

The boy took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I do, sir. I do not like it, but I do understand."

So Mimir took himself off, and Loki asked if he could distract himself by going down into Vingólf proper, the town that had grown up around the old dirt pile and had once been the capital of Asgard, long ago.

"Our conversation the other night put me in mind of it," he explained. "With everything that has happened, I have not really felt up to… exploring."

"Of course, Loki. I'd like you back in a few hours, though. It is possible that Mimir will bring word, and we might prepare for a journey to the palace after all." As Loki nodded, he added, "Try the district nearest the temple; there are sometimes traders there from other realms, but who prefer not to go to the capital, for whatever reason."

"Thank you, sir."

* * *

As it turned out, not only did Mimir bring word a few hours later that his magic had been successful, a royal messenger came along with him, bearing a summons for Loki himself. Since Loki was underage, Tyr would be permitted to accompany the boy without repercussions; there was no way he would permit Loki into Odin's presence without being there to protect him, just in case. That was standard protocol for any parents whose child had been taken from them for fostering, so not even the All-Father could argue.

Loki was so nervous he could barely eat his dinner, and asked to be excused early to dress and put on his ceremonial armor.

"I'll be up in a few minutes to assist, if you would like."

"I—yes, that would be… helpful. Thank you, sir."

The boy was rigid with tension when Tyr went up to help him into his harness, and only answered Tyr's comments with monosyllables; eventually the general gave up and they finished in silence.

"It will be all right, Loki," he said when everything was in place.

"Thank you, sir," was all the boy said in reply. Completely neutral, and he had what Tyr had come to think of as his "court face" on again.

They took the skiff back to the palace, Loki standing perfectly still but for the curling and uncurling of one fist, or else flicking each finger in sequence, over and over again. Now was not the time to try and engage him in conversation, Tyr could see, but he still wished there was something he could say to help soothe the boy's nerves somewhat.

They were brought, not to the healing wing or a throne room, nor even to Odin's study, but to a tastefully-appointed sitting room that Tyr had never seen before. It had numerous bookshelves and cabinets with various trinkets and trophies on display, a tafl board set near the hearth, and several chairs and small tables scattered about.

It was, Tyr realized, the receiving room to Odin's private chambers, just as he had seen in Loki's quarters that fateful morning.

Loki was running his hands down the front of his armor, as if smoothing wrinkles out of an invisible tunic, when the door opened behind them and Frigga came in.

"My son." She crossed quickly to him, beaming, and wrapped him in an embrace he sighed into and returned. After a moment, she pulled away, gave a kiss to the boy's forehead, and rested her hands on his shoulders as she looked him up and down. "You look well."

"Well enough, Mother, thank you." His eyes darted to the door and back. "And Fa—the All-Father?"

It seemed to Ty that the queen's smile turned a little pained for a brief instant. "Odin is well. He was merely delayed by some of the older courtiers; his sleep unnerved them and now they crave reassurance that all is well."

"And all is, I presume?" Tyr asked politely. "Seidmadr Mimir did not seem concerned."

Frigga's smile settled into something serene and sure. "My husband is not yet the man he was," she said. "He may never be again. But I can see the changes wrought upon him from this rest. He is certainly closer to that man than he has been in a long time."

"My wife flatters me," said Odin, stepping into the room and closing the door. He nodded to them both. "General Tyr. Loki." He rubbed his jaw, the exact spot where Tyr had punched him nearly two weeks ago. "I trust our conversation this evening will be more civil than the previous one."

"I certainly have no intentions otherwise," said Tyr. "Do you?"

"Mm. No. Though I will not deny I earned what you gave me," said Odin, and Tyr felt his eyebrows climb in surprise.

The older man moved to a cabinet filled with bottles, but after looking them over did not pull any out. Instead he turned to them with his hands behind his back, and drew himself up. Beside Tyr, he could feel Loki tense.

"My son," he said, and narrowed his good eye when he saw Loki flinch. "You _were_ my son, Loki, however poorly I may have demonstrated that fact. I have wronged you. I see that now, where before I could not. You did not deserve the way you were treated, by me." He took a short, sharp breath, seeming to reach for the mantle of the All-Father in order to draw strength from it. "A king does not apologize for his actions, although a father may, when he has wronged his son. Yet I find myself… not yet capable of doing so." Odin pursed his lips and looked away briefly. "The hold of the magic upon my mind remains strong. I suspect it always will be. I find that I am not interested in seeking your forgiveness; but I will acknowledge my wrongdoing."

Tyr watched Loki's throat work as he swallowed. "I understand, F-father," said the boy, in a small voice.

Odin nodded. "I do not disown you," he said, more decisively, "but neither will I demand that you return to me from General Tyr's custody. You will remain a prince of Asgard, in the line of succession as you always have been, with all the privileges you have previously enjoyed. And all the responsibilities. You will remain my son; but given my previous behavior, I believe it safest for you to remain… out of my immediate reach."

Loki nodded, though he was blinking rapidly as he tried to take in his father's words. "May I ask a question, sir?"

"You may."

"Why do… why would you continue to claim me as your son, when you have already said I am not of your blood?" Loki's fists tightened at his side, though he made no other movement. "I am not even Aesir. General Tyr told me."

"Ah."

That was all Odin said for a long moment, but just when Tyr began to believe that he was not going to answer at all, he nodded to himself and looked up at them both. "Come with me. I suppose it is time you learned the truth."

He and the queen led Loki and Tyr out of the royal wing of the palace and down, down through corridors and private stairs, down further still, until they were well below the ground floor of the palace, and stood before the Great Vault. Inside, Tyr knew, were relics and trophies of wars going back to Buri's day, including weapons and artifacts that were too dangerous to wield, but too powerful to dispose of easily.

The doors opened, and Odin took them down yet another flight of steps, to a pedestal where rested an artifact Tyr recognized, though he had not seen it in seven hundred years: the Casket of Ancient Winters.

The All-Father turned to Loki then, the blue light from the Casket highlighting every wrinkle on Odin's face and glinting off the patch over his eye. "Behold your birthright, my son."


	24. Revelations and Farewells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Odin and Loki have one final conversation in the Great Vault; Tyr reassures Loki as they make their way home.

"My birthright," Loki whispered. He stared at the thing as if entranced, and for all Tyr knew, maybe he was, captivated by some magic it possessed that Tyr could not sense. "You showed it to us once, when we were children," he said, tearing his gaze away finally. His eyes roamed across the All-Father's face uncertainly.

"It is more than a mere weapon," said Odin. "In fact, it was never meant to be used as one. The Casket is the heart of Jotunheim. Without it, their world dies."

Loki's eyes widened. "Then why did you _take_ it?" he asked, horrified.

"The burden of being king means taking responsibility for terrible decisions, in which there is no good outcome, only degrees of greater and lesser evil," Odin said. "Had they been permitted to keep it, they would have continued to press Midgard, Vanaheim, Asgard… were they to lose it, they could not move against any other realm, and eventually would weaken to the point where it might be safe, someday, to return it."

"And you would have used me to do that," Loki guessed. Hm. The boy was astute. It made sense. "And not just return it, but rule them as, as your puppet king."

"I had considered it," Odin admitted. "As a Jotun yourself, they might listen to you. As one who understood Asgard's culture, you might bridge the widening gap between our peoples. They were our ancestors once, though few recall that fact when reciting tales of ancient conquests." He sighed, and let his hand hover over the Casket, though he did not touch it. "But I abandoned those plans while you were yet a child. You were one of us by then; if you were abandoned as I thought, they would not value your return to them."

"Is that why you began to mistreat him in the first place?" asked Tyr. "Because he no longer fit into your plans?"

"No." The-Allfather's mouth worked for a moment. "Or, perhaps that was part of it," he said, the reluctance clear in his voice. "But as I said, I do recall loving my son. I am… damaged, now. According to Mimir. I cannot feel for Loki what I once felt. I can only assume that that damage is what caused me to show such contempt to an innocent boy. Because I was forced to set aside my plans for him, and somehow in my mind it made sense to blame him for that."

They were all silent for a moment, taking that in.

"Why would they abandon a child in a temple, and leave it beside their greatest treasure?" Loki asked; his voice trembled, and Tyr could see the dampness of sweat at his temples. His arms were wrapped tightly about his middle, hugging himself for reassurance.

"I know nothing of their ways, boy," Odin replied irritably. "But look at your stature; you were too small for them. I have never seen a pure-blooded giant's child so small."

Tyr frowned. "Do you mean to say that you did not realize he had seidr in him?" Odin fixed a hawk-like glare upon him, so he went on, "I was taught thus by Hymir, my father. Generally, giants may have either seidr or great size and strength. Not both."

Behind them, they heard Frigga gasp. "The Jotnar would have known this from the beginning," she said.

Odin shut his eye and sighed. "And this was the other reason I chose to set aside my plans for you: because, if I were wrong, and you had not been abandoned, then I would have wrongfully stolen a child from them, and they would not listen after that to anything Asgard might have to say to them concerning peace." He shook his head. "I might have guessed, considering."

"Considering what?" asked Tyr, his eyes narrowing.

But Odin only shook his head again, and did not answer.

"Why did you never tell me what I was?" asked Loki.

"I sought only to protect you from the truth," said Odin.

"What _truth_?" Loki's voice echoed faintly in the chamber. "Did you think I would feel as though I did not belong, if I knew? Did you think I would feel myself to be _different_ , an outsider? I already felt that—every day! And then you made it worse yourself, deliberately!" The sound of Loki's voice reverberated off the stone, and he stopped himself with a sharp gasp, flinching back as if expecting to be struck. Tyr immediately put himself between the two.

Odin glared, but did not raise a hand, and did not speak. After a moment his glare faded, and he looked only… cool, and remote.

"What truth, Odin?" he asked, mindful to keep his voice low and calm. "There is no shame in having Jotun blood; you know that as well as I. Why would you need to protect the boy from knowing his true nature? What about his own blood would need to be kept hidden, and for so long?"

The All-Father continued to watch them with that distant, opaque expression until it started to raise the hairs on the back of Tyr's neck. "The people of Asgard are biased against the Jotnar," said Odin, but the words rang hollow to the general's ears. "They view them, right or wrong, as little more than beasts."

"That is not a sufficient excuse, husband, and you know it," Frigga spoke, startling the king. "You could have combated that bias at any time. It was only your lingering anger at Bestla that prevented you. And indeed, fewer people in Asgard would view Jotnar thusly if it were not for _you_ enforcing the notion that it was acceptable to do so."

"And you know my reasons," said Odin.

"I know _Bor's_ reasons," countered Frigga, "and you have made them your own, but consider: did not the power of Asgard corrupt his mind, too?"

At this, the king actually looked stricken, then pensive; he could not seem to determine how best to respond.

"Loki had the right to know these secrets," said Tyr, still carefully calm. "These were truths about his own body and blood; they never should have been kept from him in the first place. When did you intend to reveal them?"

Odin glanced away, dropping his eyes to the Casket and shaking his head minutely. "I didn't," he said finally.

"But why? Father, _why_?" Tyr did not need to look over his shoulder to see the desperation on Loki's face; it was stitched all through his voice.

"You were one of us," Odin said simply. "As I… as I have striven, over the years, to forget Bestla, to forget her abandonment of her family and Asgard, so have I striven to forget what you were. You became my son. Became Aesir, the moment I first touched you. I thought that was enough."

"So you _were_ ashamed of me," said Loki, hushed. "You would have had to be, to try to _forget_ what I was in order to make me _acceptable_ to you."

"That… is also a possibility. As I said: I have wronged you."

"Wronged," said Tyr. "That's putting it a bit mildly. And you wrong him still."

"How so, General?"

"You have yet to truly answer the question he has put to you several times now: what is your real reason for not telling Loki these truths, long ago? Stop evading the question. The boy has a right to know, as do I, now."

Odin fixed him with a hard look, his nostrils flaring. "We are not in your study, General; I would advise you to remember your place."

Tyr folded his arms in annoyance and took a deep breath of his own.

"Husband," said Frigga. "Your enchanted sleep has done much to erase the marks that Asgard's magic has left upon you. The alterations to your personality. However, some alterations, you can only mend on your own."

Odin was silent for a long moment; in the echoing chamber it was easy to hear the creak of their armor, the rustle of their clothing, or the harsh breathing of the All-Father and his Jotun son.

But Tyr waited, and watched, and when Loki moved to press Odin for an answer, he held up one hand. _Wait,_ he signed; the boy met his eyes searchingly, but fell still.

Finally, Odin seemed to wilt under the pressure of their stares. "Loki," he said quietly. "Come he—"

"Why?" Tyr cut him off.

Odin visibly clenched his teeth, then relented. "I wish him to place his hands upon the Casket. They will respond to one another."

"Stand away from him, then," said Tyr quietly. "I do not yet trust that you are fully recovered from all that the magic of Asgard has done to you."

To the general's surprise, Odin went without protest, though he looked pained to do it; Tyr nodded for Loki to come forward. "Only if you wish it," he said quietly, but the boy merely gave a helpless little gesture with his hands.

"How else will I learn?" he asked. He stepped up to the pedestal and put his back to them all, though Tyr noticed he still remained closer to him than to Odin. He lifted his hands, hesitated, and Tyr saw him shake his head and give a little quiver before lowering them onto the Casket's lid.

There was no noise, no bright glow to mark whatever was happening, but he heard Loki take a shaky breath and let it out in a slow, shuddering sigh.

"Loki?" he called, and stepped forward, concerned.

"It sings," he said. There was the faintest bit of a growl to his voice that hadn't been there before. "I wish you could hear it."

"Are you in any discomfort, my son?" asked Frigga.

"Discomfort? No… no," said Loki. "It feels… it is like returning home after a long journey."

"Show them your face," said Odin, and Loki immediately stiffened. Tyr resisted the urge to reach over and smack him on the back of the head for stupidity.

But the boy did turn around, transformed from his Aesir appearance to his Jotun skin, his ruby gaze glancing back and forth between Tyr and his mother. Tyr couldn't help but notice that he carefully avoided looking at Odin, but the man only stood there impassively.

"Oh, my son…" Frigga started forward, reaching for his face. Loki flinched back, but after a pause he allowed her to rest the backs of her fingers against his cheek. "I have not seen you in this form since you were an infant. And you are so beautiful."

"You… you've seen this—me—before?"

"Only once," she said. She couldn't seem to take her eyes off his face. "When Odin first brought you home. You were a natural shape shifter, even then, it seems."

Tyr frowned. "A shape shifter he may be, my queen, and to be able to change in infancy is unusual, but this is not a separate form, as you say. All Jotnar have their warm-skin and their cold-skin. Did you not know this?"

Frigga did not look away from the boy, but he heard her chuckle sadly. "It seems my people are as guilty of ignorance about the Jotnar as Aesir can be. I am glad he has you, General Tyr, to teach him these things."

"And I suppose Mimir will be of use," muttered Odin. "Do you see, now, General, what I intended to keep from him?"

The lines on Loki's face shifted, emphasizing the fretfulness of his expression. "What is it?" he asked. "Am I—is something wrong?"

"Not at all," said Tyr, stepping closer. The glow of the Casket provided enough light to cast the boy's markings in sharp relief… and ah, there it was. The secret Odin had decided to hide. Tyr wanted to feel anger at the man, but all he could muster was disappointment.

To Loki, he said, "No, your mother is right; you are a fine example of your people, Loki. But here; touch your face. Feel." He watched as Loki explored the markings, tracing them along the outside of his eyebrows and below his lip. "Those are called kin markings," he explained. "You'll have them under your clothing, too. It's why the Jotnar generally wear so little. My father said that in the cold they could help one find sources of warmth, which could either mean safety and companionship, or hidden prey when on the hunt. No two Jotnar have the same markings, but some patterns can be inherited; can help to identify families or clans."

"Families or clans…" said Loki. He thought for a moment, red eyes faraway, then looked up, eyes wide with realization, meeting Odin's gaze at last. "I suppose some family markings become quite well-known indeed, do they not, All-Father?"

The older man sighed. "They do."

The growl in Loki's voice was more pronounced as he stepped forward, and Tyr thought he saw the boy's fingertips shining with ice; the memory of what that ice could do had him almost instinctively reaching for his sword before he stopped himself. "And what family markings do I carry?" he asked. "To whom do I really belong?"

"You belong here, with us—" began Frigga, but Loki cut her off.

"No. I was not abandoned, and you knew it, didn't you? Didn't you! From whom did you _steal_ me, All-Father?"

Odin would not meet his eyes. "I did truly believe you abandoned—"

 _"Tell me!_ " The anguished cry echoed through the chamber.

"…Laufey," said Odin, at long last. "You are Laufey's son."

Loki's breath caught on a sob, and he staggered backward to lean against the pedestal on which the Casket rested.

"Odin, what have you done?" asked Frigga lowly, and in truth, she was only saying what Tyr himself was thinking.

"It is as I have said; I believed the child to have been abandoned, his caretakers fled when our soldiers attacked the temple against my orders. Whether he had been left there to die or placed there for protection, he was alone when I found him. Crying, feeble, shivering in his ragged wrap. Too small for any giant I had ever seen. I _rescued_ him, Frigga," Odin insisted, a note of pleading just barely audible beneath the usual kingly dignity.

"To what end?" asked Loki. "You have never done anything in your life without a purpose."

"And I have already told you my purpose; through you we might have one day achieved peace with the Jotnar. But I no longer see that as a possibility, and have not since you were a child."

"Because even if you were to return his lost son, Laufey would never forgive you for having stolen him in the first place," said Tyr. "You could not leave him there to be raised to hate Aesir, and knowing what the Casket was, you perhaps did not wish to leave him behind to suffer a slow death from starvation."

Odin looked to the boy then, and twitched one hand, stopping himself before he could do more than begin to reach out in what might have been a beseeching gesture. "I have wronged you, my son. But you must understand that I made the best choices possible at the time, for Asgard, for the war, and for you. I never wanted you to suffer."

"At least, not then," said Tyr, twisting the knife a little. "But you never cared if he thrived. And when he grew too old to adore you, you gave up on him, threw him away emotionally if not physically."

"The magic of Asgard—"

" _Damn_ the magic of Asgard," said Frigga. "You may claim to love him, but we both know you would never have countenanced placing him upon the throne if Thor should prove unsuitable! Your plans for him fell apart, and he reminded you too much of Bestla, and you could not ever forgive him for that, even though he was never to blame!"

"That is not true!" Odin shouted, and Loki flinched again.

Tyr stood closer to him and rested a hand on the back of his neck for support; under his touch, Tyr felt the skin warm and shift from tough Jotun blue to softer Aesir pale. In response, he felt Loki lean into his side for the briefest moment before straightening.

"The magic of Asgard did change me, Frigga," Odin was saying. "I did love the boy. I would love him still, if I could. My heart is grown… remote. I did not notice the difference before, but since the enchanted sleep I feel it in my bones. I am king of all Asgard, _All-Father_ , and cannot devote myself to one boy, however much I might wish to." He turned to Loki then, and drew himself up with a slow, deep breath. "I can do little else for you, now. But you have Tyr. And now, at least, all the secrets I have kept from you have been revealed."

"And where does that leave Thor?" Frigga demanded. "You have thrown Loki away and the blessing of the Norns caused him to land within the safety of Tyr's grasp. What of your firstborn?"

"He will have you," said Odin, and Frigga slapped him.

"He will have both of us, if it kills you," she said. "You will be his father so that he does not grow up wondering, as Loki did, whether he was ever loved at all."

"Loki was loved—"

"Poor though you were at showing it. And eventually you stopped."

* * *

 

The conversation never did resolve itself from there. Frigga, no longer constrained to obedience, was in a mood to fight, and Odin did not wish for witnesses, so they were simply dismissed from the Great Vault with one last acknowledgment from the All-Father:

"You are still my son. You are still a prince of Asgard.  …Goodbye." And he had held his hand out, not to beckon Loki into an embrace, but to offer the traditional arm-clasp between friendly acquaintances.

Loki had swallowed hard before slipping into his "court face"; then he stepped forward and took Odin's arm.

"Goodbye, F—goodbye… All-Father."

They stood for a moment in silence, and then Odin nodded, released the boy, and turned away, leaving him to stand alone. He looked utterly bereft for the blink of an eye, until he turned and saw Tyr, steadfast at his shoulder, and Frigga, still glaring at Odin but softening when she glanced Loki's way.

"Goodbye, Mother."

"Not goodbye." She stepped closer to him and took his hands. "Be well, my son."

The boy nodded, and took a shaky breath. "Be well."

With one last squeeze, she let go as well, and stepped back, still smiling. As Loki stepped hesitantly toward the stairs, she turned to glare once more at Odin, and there was nothing left for them to say.

* * *

Loki walked beside Tyr, up and out through the winding corridors, hunched in on himself and saying nothing until they reached the docks where the palace skiffs waited.

"Was I ugly?" he finally asked, so quietly that Tyr was not sure at first that he had said anything.

"No, you were not," said Tyr honestly. "You looked like you, only with kin markings."

"Eyes like blood," said Loki. "Skin like a drowned man."

Tyr snorted, trying for levity. "You're quoting nursery rhymes and looking for accurate descriptions?" But Loki looked at him with such a wounded expression that Tyr could only stop in his tracks with a sigh, and step closer, and pull the boy into an embrace. Loki was wound tight as a harp string, even to the point of quivering minutely under Tyr's hands; the general just shook his head and held him more tightly.

"You were not ugly. Your eyes were like gems," he said, pulling on childhood memories of his father and the poetry he would recite whenever the mood struck him. "Your skin was the blue of… of a glacier at sea, with the sun shining through it. Pure, and clear. Your kin markings were elegant; there is a crown on your brow, did you know that? Right here," he added, when Loki shook his head and sniffled. He pulled back, and with a callused thumb he drew the half-circle that he had seen on Loki's forehead. It reminded him of the mark of blood he'd made on the boy's brow at their fostering ceremony, barely two weeks past now.

"I have never seen my own true face," said Loki, and the tears standing in his eyes spilled over and made their own markings on his cheeks. "Even my skin is a lie."

"Not so," said Tyr decisively. "This is your warm-skin, and it is just as much yours as your cold-skin. This _is_ what you look like, Loki."

"I should have guessed before now that I wasn't theirs," the boy said miserably. "I don't look anything like them."

"Don't let the queen hear you say that you're not hers," warned Tyr with a half-smile, feeling his heart sink as Loki only shrugged and wiped at his face before turning away to board the skiff. Yes, they had had this discussion before, but of course the boy had been devastated, and beyond distraught at the time. It would take more than one chat for reassurance to really sink in.

They flew through the city without speaking, listening to the noises of the street below, muffled by the wind; Tyr kept himself close in case the boy wanted to say anything, but it was for naught. Loki's hood was pulled up and his head was ducked down; he had turned his back to Tyr and his hands gripped the gunwale tightly. Tyr could not see even a hint of his expression in the dim evening light.

Eventually they began to cross Idavoll, and still Loki did not speak; the silence was profound.

"You know," Tyr said finally, making the boy start a little, "there _is_ another Jotun at Vingólf you could talk to, if you wanted to learn more about all this."

"Seidmadr Mimir," said Loki, sounding to Tyr as if he'd only just remembered him. "But he—I couldn't."

"No? Why not?"

"Because he—he's _Mimir,_ the Wise, the greatest seidmadr the realms have ever seen! I can't trouble him with nonsense like this."

"I will not pretend to know the man well, just yet, but I do think he would appreciate the old adage that the only stupid question is one that goes unasked." Tyr looked at the boy sidelong under the light of Asgard's evening sky. "You should speak to him. Your lessons with him go well, according to him. He is pleased to have you as a student."

"I suppose."

"You converse on many subjects already, do you not?" Tyr pressed, just a little. "You could easily converse with him about this."

"But it's… insignificant. And he doesn't even like F—Odin."

"From what I have seen, he cares for his sister-son deeply, but is exasperated by his stubbornness. And, the history of Jotunheim is not insignificant. You could start there." Loki looked thoughtful at that, so the general continued, "He is to be your mentor, as I understand it; whatever troubles you will be of importance to him."

He waited for a response, but Loki just shrugged and kept his eyes on his hands.

"What is it that troubles you most?" asked Tyr. He lowered his voice so that the wind would drown them out and the pilot could not overhear. "Is it that you are Jotun? Because I have told you, there is no more shame to that than there would be if you were born among the Ljosalfar, or the Vanir."

"I'm the true, by birth, blood-son of a monster," said the boy.

"You are the son of a king," said Tyr firmly. "That has not changed." Even if the answer to _Which king?_ had. "Laufey was a worthy opponent, and no monster, whatever you may have heard."

"Asgard warred with him, and it took stealing the heart of his realm to make him stop."

"A fierce disposition is not necessarily a flaw, Loki," Tyr reminded him. "And war is always— _always_ —more complicated than people pretend it is. The reasons for it, in any case. It is easy to pass our enemies off as monsters, and think no more of their goals, their wants, their vulnerabilities, but never forget that even the worst enemy is still a person, and still believes that what they are doing is right, or necessary. Just as we believe we are right to stop them."

"I suppose," answered Loki again. Well. Mumbled it.

"Talk to Mimir," Tyr said, reaching out to pat the boy on his shoulder. "And remember that you are still you; you simply know more than you did before."

"What I did know was a lie," said Loki.

Tyr didn't have a quick comeback to that. "Perhaps. Not all of it, though. But I am sorry. What you must be feeling now, I cannot truly imagine. But I am here for you, my son. We all are. All of us at Vingólf; your mother; Thor."

"Not Thor," said Loki. His head came up at that, and he met Tyr's eye. "Don't tell him. Please."

It was not the best idea, in Tyr's opinion, but… "All right. I promise."

The boy studied his face; then, after a moment's thought, he spoke again. "You swore to tell me the truth," he said.

"I did."

"Did you know I was… _his_ son?" He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Laufey's?"

Tyr shook his head immediately. "I didn't. I was more caught up with the idea of Odin having an _infant_ in his tent than I was with checking to see whose kin markings it bore." Tyr shrugged in the dim evening light. "And infant markings are sometimes incomplete. There's no guarantee I would have recognized your lines, even if I'd thought to study them."

"Does it…" He trailed off, fidgeted with his vambraces, and looked everywhere but at Tyr. The general simply waited him out, and eventually Loki worked up the courage to ask, "Does it change things? That I'm—his? His get?"

"Not for me," shrugged Tyr. He glanced over to see Loki hanging on his every word, reluctant though he was to show it; the poor boy was so desperate for an anchor that it hurt to see. Tyr stood close, his back against the gunwale and leaning in where Loki could not help but hear. "You are my son. I vowed so before all Asgard; the Norns blessed it, Odin will not contest it… the Jotnar do not even know it. Incidentally, the Norns' blessing: I cannot recall that ever happening in all my lifetime, outside of _some_ of the volur when they take their vows of service to the temple. You are my son, Loki, and as it happens, I am proud to have you."

The nebulae of Asgard's sky glowed just brightly enough to illuminate another tear, tracing its way down Loki's cheek. Tyr reached over and rested his hand atop one of Loki's, where he held onto the gunwale.

"You are my son. I will do everything in my _power_ to be the father to you that you have deserved. My solemn oath, Loki, you deserved far better than what you got, and I will do my damnedest to make sure that you get it now."

"I know," said Loki. The admission surprised Tyr. "I… I believe you. What hurt the most, when Odin said goodbye, was the idea that—that I had no father. It… the thought seemed to echo in my head, _Now I have no father_ , but… I know that's not true. I do believe that you will keep your oath. I'm afraid to believe you, sometimes, because… but I do believe you."

Ah. _Because._ Loki feared that if he ever did let himself accept what Tyr offered, it would only be taken away in the next instant. The old soldier nodded in understanding.

Loki might not trust him fully yet, but he wanted to, and as for the rest; well, now they had time.

"Keep believing that," he said aloud. "And believe your mother. She has promised you that all will be well, has she not?"

"She has, sir."

"Then all will be well."

Tyr could just barely make out the tentative smile before Loki ducked his head.

"Thank you, sir."

Tyr turned to stand side-by-side with Loki, and threw an arm across his shoulders. After a moment, he felt Loki lean into the embrace, and his shoulders drop.

Father and son remained silent, but companionably so, as they completed their journey home; they had the blessing of the Norns on their side, but more importantly, they had time, and they had the beginnings of trust. As far as Tyr was concerned, that was all that they needed.

All would be well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this concludes the first arc of my tale! Yes, you're right, there are many loose ends still to be tied up and questions to be answered; I plan to address them bit by bit in several other pieces in this 'verse. I've got at least three planned already.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, for your encouragement, your bookmarks and reviews and fanart and all the rest. They mean the world to me, and so do you. If you want to leave extra kudos, you're welcome to stop by [my Tumblr blog](http://peaceheather.tumblr.com) and say hello.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Your fading memory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4831016) by [deutschistklasse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deutschistklasse/pseuds/deutschistklasse)
  * [Mimir](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5560183) by [deutschistklasse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deutschistklasse/pseuds/deutschistklasse)
  * [My blue angel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6941857) by [lonewarrior](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonewarrior/pseuds/lonewarrior)
  * [Darcy Lewis: God of War](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9034931) by [Mercutio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercutio/pseuds/Mercutio)




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